


Happiness Isn't Always Simple

by Hayama4



Series: Happiness [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Hawkelings, Headcanon, Mages, Original Character(s), Parenthood, Plotbunnies, Post-Canon, Protective Fenris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-01-17 00:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 79,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12353286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hayama4/pseuds/Hayama4
Summary: A collection of ficlets following Fenris and Hawke’s lives after Dragon Age Inquisition.Something of a sequel to my fic “The Right Time for Happiness”, though this work can stand alone if you aren't interested in reading that first.  Spoilers for DAII, DAI, and my fic.





	1. It’s Because You Love Them

**Author's Note:**

> Since this takes place after DAI, whatever is coming in Game 4 could ruin this all, but for now I’d like to assume Fenris and Hawke are somewhat insulated from whatever Thedas-shattering nonsense occurs.
> 
> I’m not usually into reading or writing much of an OC presence, but some of these ideas were too cute to pass up.
> 
> Each chapter covers a different timepoint in the Hawke household, with its own little theme. This is what I have written so far, and I have a few more ideas in the works. I have previously posted this elsewhere, and I will update both there and here. Enjoy!

 

* * *

It’s Because You Love Them

Age 8

* * *

 

Fenris sat between his two children as they bent over sheets of paper, scrawling away.  Hawke had gone into town to buy some odds and ends… and hopefully some decent wine for once.  Meanwhile, he was helping them with their daily writing lessons.  He looked over Malcolm’s shoulder, watching as the boy carefully translated each sentence from common tongue to Tevene.  He was halfway down the page, making slow but steady progress.  His sister, meanwhile…

“Done!” El declared, thrusting her paper at Fenris. 

He took it from her, frowning as he deciphered her hasty script.  “You have the right words, but your conjugations are all wrong.  Like here, see?  Stop rushing and do it right.”

El pouted.  “Why do we have to learn this anyway?”

Fenris sighed.  “Because it’s good to know and I can teach it to you.  I learned Tevene first, you know.  I still think in Tevene half the time.”

“You cuss in Tevene too,” El muttered.

“How would you know, if you don’t understand what I’m saying?” Fenris asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

El laughed.  “Because Mama scolds you!”  She deepened her voice, a comical impression of Hawke.  “ _Don’t say things like that in front of the children!_ ”

“Your mother wasn’t raised in a Chantry either, you know,” Fenris grumbled.

“I know,” El said, dissolving into giggles.  “Sometimes she says _Andraste’s knickerweasels_!”

Malcolm finally took his eyes from his paper, looking up at his father.  “What does that even mean?”

Fenris rolled his eyes.  “I’ve no idea.  She learned it form an old friend of ours.”  He turned to El.  “Now, finish up those conjugations and you can go play.”

El slumped in her chair.  “They’re haaaard, Papa.”

“No they aren’t,” Fenris huffed.  “I taught myself to spell them right you know.”

Malcolm was curious.  “Your parents didn’t teach you to write Tevene?”

“No, they didn’t teach me at all.  Your mother taught me to read and write, but she only speaks common tongue.  She doesn’t know Tevene,” Fenris replied plainly.

El laughed, “That’s silly Papa… How did she teach you if you’re almost the same age?”

Fenris sighed, one eyebrow raised.  “What do our ages have to do with anything?”

El started doodling stick figures on her paper, singing to herself.  “La- la- laaa.  Little Ma-ma tea-ching little Pa-pa how to read…”  A smiling figure with long hair was holding a book for a scowling one.

Fenris rolled his eyes.  “I wasn’t little.  We told you we met in Kirkwall when we were both already grown.”

“So… what?” El began, confused.  “Your parents forgot to teach…”

“El!” Malcolm snapped.  “Look, I’m finished.  I’m going to go play on the swing first.”

El frowned, her competitive nature erasing whatever thought she’d had.  “I’ll finish before you can even get your boots on!”

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, Hawke and El went outside to make sure the chickens were safely rounded up into their coop, while Fenris tended to the supper they had cooking over the fire.  He put the lid back on the pot and turned to see Malcolm behind him.

“Papa…” Malcolm was tentative.  “I’m sorry El is so stupid.”

Fenris frowned.  “Your sister isn’t stupid.  She just doesn’t enjoy lessons the way you do.”  It was true.  The only books they didn’t have to force her to read were Varric’s nonsense adventures.  Meanwhile, Malcolm would happily read about the geography of Antiva.

“No, I don’t mean that.  I know El’s smart.  It’s… well she’s mean sometimes without knowing it.  She assumes things… and then says whatever she’s thinking.”

“Like what?” Fenris asked.

“Like earlier… Your parents didn’t forget to teach you to read, did they?  That doesn’t make any sense,” Malcolm explained.

“No,” Fenris admitted plainly, “I doubt they knew themselves.  Even so, it doesn’t matter.  I know now.”

“Yeah… but…” Malcolm bit his lip.  He stood, indecisive, for a long time before finally going to the bookshelf and selecting a reference tome on the kingdoms and realms of Thedas.  Really, this boy and his reading…  He flipped through the pages and then turned the book towards Fenris.

“Is this book true, Papa?”

Fenris had only to glance at the title of the chapter: Slavery in the Tevinter Imperium.  He’d read every book in the house at least twice, and this one was no exception.  The book was true, and candidly so.

“Yes…”

Malcolm started to cry, and Fenris could only assume one thing.  The boy, wise beyond his years, had pieced together what it meant to be an illiterate, non-mage elf in Tevinter.

Years ago, Fenris had asked Hawke how she thought he should approach his past when it came to the children.  He had no intention of hiding reality from them, but he also realized that he was possibly too blunt to explain such touchy subjects appropriately.  Hawke, however, had no answers.  “I know they’re our children, but it’s _your_ story, Fenris.”  Really, Fenris thought he had a few more years before this would even come up, but Malcolm was like his mother… too inquisitive by half.

“Come here…” Fenris ordered softly.  “You don’t need to cry over the past, least of all mine.”

“But it’s awful…” the boy stepped into Fenris’s arms and buried his face in his shirt.

“Yes, some things are awful.  That’s why your mother and I want to teach you to do good things.”  The boy’s tears didn’t subside.  Fenris bent down, taking him by the shoulders.  “Hey, look at me.  Someday, when you’re older, I’ll tell you more about my past.  Right now, you only need to know three things.  First, I am free.  I’ve been free for a long time.  Second, I am happy, because I have you and El and your mother.  Third, I wouldn’t change my past.  If it weren’t for my past I wouldn’t be standing here right now.  Do you understand?”

Malcolm nodded, sniffling but no longer crying.  “Papa?”

“Yes?”

“I know I can become a good mage, a strong mage,” Malcolm said quietly. 

“I know you can too,” Fenris assured him.

Malcolm looked up at him, a rare determination in his eyes.  “I won’t let any magisters get us.”  The tips of Malcolm’s small fingers glowed blue with a magic usually reserved for healing his sister’s skinned knees, and Fenris’s heart broke just a little.

Fenris scooped the boy up in a fierce hug.  “I don’t ever want you to worry about that.  Your mother and I are stronger than any magister, I promise.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Fenris lay awake in bed.  Having relayed the day’s events to Hawke, he sighed.  “I thought it would get easier once they could feed themselves and toilet themselves.  How could simply _talking_ to them be so hard?”

Hawke snuggled closer to him and kissed his temple.  “It’s because you love them.”

“That’s always your answer,” he complained.  “I loved them when they were tiny squalling things too.”

“Yes, but then they only needed to be held and cared for.  It was exhausting, certainly, but it wasn’t difficult to understand.  Now they’re not _squalling things_ , they’re _people_ , Fenris.  They’re trying to understand the world, and they look to us to teach them.  We love them, so we want to teach them properly and it’s exhausting all over again.”

Fenris sighed and threw an arm over his face.  “They’re both so clever and stubborn, it frightens me.”

Hawke laughed.

“I’m serious,” Fenris continued, moving his arm just enough to peek at her with one eye.  “Sometimes I wonder if I would do a better job if I remembered being a child.”

Hawke shook her head and kissed him.  “I remember my childhood perfectly well, and I’m just as lost as you are.  I think that’s just how it works.”


	2. Lyrium Song

* * *

Lyrium Song

Age 7

* * *

 

Malcolm awoke one morning puzzled.  He turned to see his sister stirring in her bed across the room.  “El...  Last night, did you hear Papa singing?”

El rolled her eyes.  “Papa doesn’t sing.”

“He was…”

She sat up and looked at him.  “A Fereldan song like Mama, then?  Or something in Tevene?”

“Neither… The song… didn’t have words…” Malcolm tried to explain.

“Then he was humming,” El replied.

“No, it was _singing_.”

El sighed.  “You dreamed it then, you idiot.”

“I guess…” Malcolm whispered.  He knew what he'd heard, but El was right, it made no sense.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Malcolm awoke in the night, hearing a distant clash of metal.  He looked at El, still soundly asleep, and decided to go investigate on his own.

Outside, behind the barn, he found the source of the noise.  His parents had their weapons out, sparring.  They frequently gave El and him lessons, but it was rare to see them pitted against each other.

“Are you getting slow on me _dear_?” Hawke teased.

Fenris growled and lunged, but Hawke still danced away from his blade. 

Hawke frowned.  “This isn’t any fun if you aren’t going to be serious.  Stop holding back, Fenris, I can take it.”

Fenris smirked.  “Oh?  Then get ready!” 

Like a flash, the markings on Fenris’s skin lit blue.  That was when Malcolm heard it… the singing.  It was a flowing melody that followed the rise and fall of Fenris’s sword as he sparred with Hawke.  Again that blade met her daggers, this time knocking Hawke back.  She was on her feet in an instant, but by then the blue glow had faded and the song drifted away.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Hawke teased, “I’m fine.  It’s entirely worth it to see you riled up once in a while.”  She drew near him and he swept her up in his arms. 

“Oh?  Is there a reason you want me riled up?”  He kissed her fiercely, before she twirled away, laughing.

It was then that she caught Malcolm’s gaze and stifled her laugh.  “I’m afraid we have company.”  Malcolm suddenly felt guilty, sneaking out of bed, spoiling their game.  It reassured him that his mother was still smiling.  “Did we wake you, honey?”

Malcolm shook his head.  “I don’t think so, but when I woke up I heard a noise… I came to see.”

“And what did you see...?” Fenris asked, glancing sideways at Hawke.

“You guys are really good at sword fighting,” Malcolm explained.  “I bet El would like to see that.”

“I bet she would,” Hawke agreed.

“Can you sing for her too, Papa?  She didn’t believe me before.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, and Hawke knelt down to look the boy in the eye.  “What do you mean, sing?”

“When Papa’s marks turned blue, I could hear him singing.  I heard it the other night, but I thought it was just a dream.”

Hawke’s eyes flashed to Fenris.  “Malcolm… that wasn’t Papa singing.  That was the lyrium in his marks.”

“Oh?  It sounded nice,” the boy replied.

Hawke sighed and smiled.  “I’m sure it did.  You know what, we can show El the singing tomorrow, but for now you should go back to bed.”  Malcolm nodded, satisfied with that promise. 

“Do you need a cup of warm milk so you can go back to sleep?” Hawke offered.

“No, Mama.  I feel sleepy now.  You and Papa can keep playing your sword game,” Malcolm yawned, drowsy now that the mystery was solved and his mind was eased.

Hawke and Fenris ushered the boy back inside.  As he padded back to his bedroom, he caught snippets of hushed whispers between them.

“Bethany said that once too…”

"Do they all experience..."

"... things that fade with time."

“We’ve always been prepared for…”

“… both of them?”

“… doesn’t matter.  What matters is…”

“I know.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I love you, you know.”

“I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

Months had passed, and while Malcolm heard a _song_ each time Fenris lit his lyrium, El was still entirely deaf to it.  It was now simply part of Malcolm’s life, easily forgotten, especially when El’s antics drew his attention elsewhere.  That afternoon, the twins had been sent to gather kindling from the wooded hill near the house.  El, however, had other ideas.

“It rained a lot lately, El.  There won’t be anything dry by the river,” Malcolm tried to explain, shouldering a bundle of sticks.

El just laughed.  “We have enough.  I just want to see the river.”

“Mama told us to stay away…”

“I just want to _see_ , Malcolm.”

Unfortunately, El’s version of _seeing_ involved tip-toeing precariously across some rocks hanging over the river’s edge.  The river was swollen from the rains, and Malcolm eyed the rushing water nervously.  He wanted El to stop, but he knew no amount of warning from him would dissuade her.

“El… please…” he whined, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.

She laughed again.  “Oh hush!  I’m…” but she didn’t get out the next word.  She turned, and the rock beneath her foot shifted in the mud.  In that moment, which felt to Malcolm all at once like an instant and an eternity, El fell into the current.

Malcolm didn’t think about what happened next.  He just reached for her, even though he was so far away.  He didn’t even know to ask for the power that ripped through him in that moment, the energy that welled inside him and shot from his fingers in a flurry of blue.  All he thought about was saving El from that water.

The power was like nothing the boy had ever felt.  It dropped him to his knees, weak and trembling.  It roared in his head, so loud he almost couldn’t think.  There was only one thought he could hold in his mind against the deafening energy.

Please

Let

El

Be

Okay

Suddenly there was something else, another sound, faint but growing stronger… a _song_.  Malcolm knew that song.  Papa’s lyrium… Papa would save El.  It would all be okay.  The song and the peace it brought Malcolm was enough to calm the storm inside his head.  Slowly, he realized he could see.  He was looking at the damp grass and his own knees.  He could feel hands against his face, ice cold.  He could hear El shouting his name over the enchanting hum of the lyrium.  El was okay.

“Papa!  I don’t know what’s wrong with him!  It’s my fault!  I went by the river… It’s my fault…”  El trailed off into sobs.  Malcolm looked up at her then, realizing it was her frigid hands on his face.  He reached up and put his hands over hers. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered.  “We’re okay.”

El’s sobs quieted, but her blue lips still trembled.  She threw her arms around him and began to cry anew.  It was only then, as Malcolm hugged her back, that he started to look around him.  Where the river had been, a mountain of twisted ice now stood.  It was already melting in the balmy air, the river pushing chunks downstream.  Malcolm didn’t even know what to make of such a thing.

He turned his head to see his father, lyrium lit, sword in hand, standing awestruck.  Fenris turned to look at him, the blue glow fading from his skin.  “Are you both alright?”

Malcolm nodded.

Hurried footsteps came to a stop behind him, and Malcolm was relieved to see his mother.  “ _Maker_ … That…”  She shook the startled expression from her face, sheathed her daggers and crouched beside Malcolm.  She looked him carefully in the eyes, and put a hand to his cheek before turning her attention to El.  “She’s sopping wet and cold as ice!  What happened?”

“I’ve no idea,” Fenris muttered, pulling his shirt off over his head.  El was still inconsolable, but Fenris wrapped his shirt around her and pried her off of Malcolm. “There was some sort of magical blast.  I felt it in my markings, even from the house.  When I got here, she said something about the river.” 

Malcolm bit his lip.  “El was playing by the water... and she slipped… and I…”  He didn’t even know how to explain.  That rush of energy, the ice… was it really him?

Hearing her brother’s voice again seemed to console El.  “I… I fell in the water,” she began softly.  She sniffed and turned to look at Malcolm.  Her voice was stronger as she continued, “I thought I would drown, but ice started growing around me, pushing me up.  I climbed over the ice and Malcolm…” her voice broke again.  “He… he wouldn’t look at me.  He wouldn’t answer me.  I was scared the ice froze him solid.”

Malcolm looked down at his hands, remembering how he had reached for El, remembering the glow of blue.  His mother put one warm hand under his chin and gently turned his head to face her.  “Honey, do you remember what happened?”

Malcolm had no simple answer.  “I was scared, and I just wanted El to be okay.  Then it was just so loud… I couldn’t think.  I couldn’t see.  I couldn’t hear El calling for me.  I couldn’t hear anything until Papa came.”  He looked up at his sister.  “I wasn’t frozen, though.  I’m not even cold…”  He still didn’t really understand what happened, but as he looked at the remnants of ice, he was suddenly afraid.

“Mama, what did I do?”

Hawke pulled him closer.  “You saved your sister.”  It worried him, the way her voice shook.

“But how?” Malcolm wondered.

“You’re a mage, Malcolm.  You’re a mage and you used your magic to save El,” his mother explained.  It reassured him that her voice was steadier this time.


	3. How to be a Healer

* * *

How to be a Healer

Age 15

* * *

 

“Hurry up, Malcolm,” El hissed, sword in hand, “Don’t you have enough?”

“There’s an aspect of quality over quantity, sister,” he muttered, carefully selecting a few more herbs and stuffing them into his bag.

El gritted her teeth.  “Well you’re not the one whose arm was clawed half to shreds by that wyvern.” 

That drew Malcolm’s attention just a hair.  “You didn’t tell me…”

El looked over the ledge to see another one of the beasts attempting to scramble up the sheer stone to reach them.  “You can heal me later.  Just get the damn herbs.”

 

* * *

 

The merchant glanced at them and sighed.  “You kids...  Rare to see just the two of you.  Where’s that _knife-ear_ you always run around with?”

An admonishment for the slur was ready on El’s tongue, but Malcolm’s fist was quicker.  The merchant stumbled back, clutching his face. 

“What was that for?!” the man mumbled through a mouth full of blood.  A tooth tumbled onto the counter.

El looked to her brother, who was shaking out his likely broken hand, a faint green glow of healing magic on his fingertips.  She sighed and turned back to the merchant.  “You’ll have to forgive my brother.  He’s a bit… _protective_.”

“I hit you because I don’t like hearing people use such insults, especially against my family,” Malcolm clarified.  He pointed to the tooth and glared at the merchant.  “Put that back in your mouth, and I’ll have it fixed in just a moment.”  The shocked merchant complied, and Malcolm began to heal him.

“Really, brother?  You’re the one who knocked it out, you know.”

Malcolm scowled.  “I wanted to teach him a lesson, not leave him missing a tooth.”  Healed, the merchant wiped his face with a rag and tested his jaw.

“Only you would think that way.”  El rolled her eyes and turned to the merchant again.  She smiled sweetly as she slung a bloody sack onto the counter.  “Now, how much are you paying for wyvern scales?”

 

* * *

 

“I suppose he’s lucky you hit him and not Father,” El mused with a smirk as they walked home.

Malcolm frowned.  “Father doesn’t care about things like that.  He doesn’t even get mad.”

“I wonder why?  He has such a temper about other things,” El mused.

“Says the pot to the kettle,” Malcolm muttered.  El shrugged, more than willing to take ownership of the shared trait.

“Why do _you_ get so mad then?” she asked.  “You usually don’t have a temper, but whenever it’s someone talking bad about elves you lose all sense.”

Malcolm looked away.  “I don’t know… I just know it’s not right.”

El laughed.  “A healer mage with a strong sense of justice… sounds familiar.”

Malcolm turned back to her, raising an eyebrow.  “Familiar?  I don’t understand.  I’m the only healer you know.”

El’s jaw dropped.  “You still haven’t read the book about Mother and Father’s time in Kirkwall?”

“They didn’t want us to…”

El rolled her eyes.  “No, Father scowled and cursed, but Mother said it was okay.”

Malcom shook his head.  “You have it backwards, El.  Father didn’t care if we read it, he just doesn’t like Uncle Varric’s books.  Mother… she looked sad.  I think she only agreed because she figured you would read it anyway.”

“You should still read it,” El sighed.  Her mouth quirked up into a wry smile.  “Mother and Father had such _adventures_ , Malcolm.  And the mage I mentioned?  He was Mother’s previous lover.”

“That…”  After a long moment, Malcolm erased the shock from his face and sighed.  “It’s hard to picture Mother with anyone but Father.”

El agreed.  “I know.  Father dragged his feet, but he had his reasons.  Clearly it was worth the time it took for them to be together.”

Malcolm stopped walking, shifting his weight uneasily, an old childhood habit reserved for times he was unsure if he should speak.  El shot him a pointed look, urging him to be frank. “What is the great philosopher Malcolm fretting now?”

He looked at her, both irritated and relieved by the invitation.  “Mother has brought all manner of acquaintances out of the woodwork to help teach me magic, but none have been healers.  Clearly she knew this man well…  What passed between them that she is either unwilling to ask for his help or he is unwilling to give it?”

El sighed.  “For most people, simply being former lovers would be reason enough.  In this case, there’s a better excuse.  He’s long dead.”

“Oh…” Malcolm frowned.  “Then maybe the book makes Mother sad because it reminds her of him.  How did he die?”

El hesitated, biting her lip.  It was rare for her to fall quiet.  “You should probably read it for yourself…”  She began walking again and Malcolm followed.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm still felt uneasy with the idea of reading _that book_.  It seemed like such an invasion of his parents’ privacy, especially because they were both so forthcoming.  If there was anything he wanted to know, he needed only to ask them.  To read such things instead filtered through the eyes of someone else, embellished for entertainment… It seemed unnecessary.

It was in that spirit that he approached his mother the next day as she sat on the porch, absentmindedly attempting to mend a torn piece of clothing.

“El is better at that,” Malcolm pointed out.  Void, _he_ was better at mending than his mother was.

She laughed.  “I know.  Mending was never my strong suit, but your father is used to it by now.  He’ll appreciate that I tried.  Eventually, the patch will get bad enough that he’ll realize he needs a new shirt, as I’ve told him.  He’ll use that as an excuse to go into town, help someone out, and earn the coin for a new shirt.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow.  “El just sold enough wyvern scales to buy us all new shirts…”

“Shhh,” Hawke chuckled.  “We have coin enough.  It’s just a game your father and I play.”

That made Malcolm smile, and reaffirmed his resolve to inquire about her former lover directly.  “Mother, I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh?”

He sat down in the empty chair beside her and looked out across the pasture.  “El told me about a mage you knew in Kirkwall, a healer.  She wouldn’t really say more than that…”

Hawke sighed.  “Anders…  Wait.  You haven’t read Varric’s book?”

“I didn’t want to,” Malcolm explained, turning to look at her.

She smiled, and Malcolm could see a strange combination of gratitude and regret on her face.  “You know, I never could decide if I wanted you two reading that nonsense or not.  On the one hand, it’s outlandish, even before Varric’s exaggerations.  On the other hand, it’s true… often painfully so.  The victories, the losses… those were real.  Your father and I have told you some things, especially about his time in Tevinter and my family, but that’s not even the half of it.

“Seeing as your sister has already let the cat out of the bag, and Maker knows half of Thedas has read the thing, maybe you _should_ read it.”

Malcolm nodded.  “If that’s the case, I will read it.  I would still like to hear about this… Anders… from you, though.  When El mentioned him, I wondered.  Why couldn’t _he_ teach me more healing magic?  El simply told me he died.  She wouldn’t say how.”

“That’s probably because it’s not a pleasant story.”  The regret won out in his mother’s eyes, her smile fading.  When she spoke again, her voice was wistful, quiet.  “I loved him, back then.  He was a good man, and he healed so many people without asking anything in return.  He wanted to help all mages, too.  He wanted freedom for mages, justice for mages.  The danger he found himself in, though, was that he had joined with a Fade spirit.”

“Joined?  But that’s…” Malcolm was surprised.  He’d read of such things, but he’d always been taught that it was too risky… too hard for humans to truly discern a benevolent spirit from a demon.

Hawke nodded.  “It’s not that a spirit is some horrible monster, or that no good could ever come of it.  No, the true risk is that it’s just too hard for a mortal to keep control.  Anders was a good man… but he was human, fallible.  Eventually, his concept of justice warped into vengeance, with the relentless drive of a spirit pushing ever onward,” Hawke explained.  “It got to the point where he destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry, hurt countless innocents, and I was given authority over his fate...”

There was an element of pain in his mother’s voice that made Malcolm sure she would end her tale there.  Instead, she took a deep breath, and continued.  “I stood there, with the city burning around me, and I couldn’t justify sparing him.  Not when there was no assurance, not even an illusion, that he wouldn’t continue to endanger others.  Not when I had killed so many others for so much less.  I loved him, but I couldn’t save him.  So, I had to stop him.  Anders is dead because _I_ killed him.”

Malcolm shifted his gaze back to the pasture, absorbing his mother’s words.  This was heavy knowledge, certainly, but not unwelcome.  It humanized his mother in a way he hadn’t expected.  It also added another layer of complexity to the freedom he enjoyed compared to previous generations of mages.  He had read about the revolts, about the impact of the Inquisition and Divine Victoria.  Still, if the Kirkwall Rebellion had never happened…

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Hawke said softly.  Malcolm knew it was a motherly request that he share at least some small fragment of his thoughts.

“Was freedom for mages worth the cost of what happened in Kirkwall?” Malcolm muttered, more as a rhetorical question than anything.

Hawke sighed.  “I don’t know, Malcolm.  The mother in me is selfishly happy that my son was neither dragged away to a Circle nor raised in constant fear of Templars.  The rest of me hoped diplomacy would have eventually been enough, and it might have been.  In the end, the fire was already burning.  Anders simply poured liquor on it.”

They were both quiet for a while.  Even Malcolm’s thoughts stilled as he looked out at the pasture.

“You know,” Hawke began thoughtfully, “You’ve learned more about healing magic from Anders than you realize.”

“How could that be?” Malcolm asked.

She smiled.  “The books we have on healing, the ones you refer to so often?  They belonged to Anders.  Varric salvaged them from his clinic after the Kirkwall Rebellion, and sent them to me once we realized you were a mage.  I’ve looked at them before, and all the notes in the margins are in Anders’s handwriting.”

“The notes have often proved more helpful than the books themselves…” Malcolm admitted.

“See then?  You’ve been taught by the best.”  Her voice shifted, softened.  “I know you might have learned more if we lived in a city or sent you to study with other mages…”

“No.  I’m happy I’m here,” Malcolm interrupted.  “I’d hate to be separated from you and Father… and especially El.  I wouldn’t be myself if I had spent my whole life somewhere else.  Father told me that a long time ago… He didn’t regret his past because it brought him to where he was, and he was happy.”

Hawke grinned.  “Sage advice from a man who won’t admit he needs a new shirt.”


	4. A Magister for Dinner

* * *

A Magister for Dinner

Age 13

* * *

 

That morning, Hawke had chased Fenris and the twins out of the house so she could clean and they could do some shopping.  Apparently Hawke had invited a friend from her time with the Inquisition to help train Malcolm in magic.  Fenris didn’t immediately recognize the name… a mage, obviously… the Orlesian one?  Hawke had explained at some point, but Fenris never could keep the dozen or so characters from her stories straight.  Regardless, he would arrive at the tavern in town any day now.  The proprietor already knew to send word.  It wasn’t really something Fenris needed to concern himself with quite yet.

As the trio walked, Fenris couldn’t help but watch his daughter with a small smirk on his face.  She had her short-sword balanced with the pommel on her open palm, and she was actually doing quite well.

“I’m not healing you if you drop that thing on yourself,” Malcolm grumbled, but all three of them knew it was an empty threat.

Suddenly, the sight of the man heading towards them on the path wiped the smile from Fenris’s face and froze him in his tracks.  The staff on the man’s back, the cut and color of his robes... a Tevinter mage…  That realization alone was enough to put the swordsman on edge.  Twenty years away from that place could not quell the instinctual adrenaline that rushed through him in that moment.  Tevinter meant fight or flight, nothing else.

His hand reached for his sword, but his mind forced him to pause.  The man wasn’t necessarily a threat.  He could just be a traveler.  Fenris had seen stranger sights on the road.  Void, he had _been_ a stranger sight on the road.  His tenuous control of his instincts, however, evaporated the moment the mage looked up at him with recognition in his eyes.

“Both of you, run and get your mother,” he growled, lyrium flaring as he drew his sword.

Fenris heard footsteps rushing off behind him, but the sudden gust of cold at his side was surprising.  For perhaps the first time ever, it was El who had heeded him and Malcolm who disobeyed.  The boy stood beside him, poised for battle, a whirl of ice magic forming at the tip of his staff.  Before Fenris could work through his shock to chastise his son, that ice was flying at the stranger.

The mage moved to grab his staff, but he was too slow.  The blast of ice pinned the mage’s leg, coaxing his gaze away from Fenris.  That was a mistake.  Fenris charged forward, aiming to give the mage one less arm.  Instead the mage summoned a blaze from his hand alone, freeing himself from the ice and forcing Fenris to leap back.  The mage started to say something, but Fenris’s focus was elsewhere.

Malcolm.

Panicked, Fenris looked for his son.  There!  The boy had shielded himself from the flames with a wall of ice, and was already aiming another shot at the stranger.  The mage had his staff now, and he was focused on Malcolm.  Fenris used the distraction to attack again with his sword, but the mage dodged at the last moment.  The battle continued with the mage on the defensive, evading Fenris’s sword and Malcolm’s ice.  Fenris should have been faster, but he couldn’t help repeatedly glancing towards his son, distracted by concern he had never quite experienced in combat before.

Suddenly the boy’s ice hit true, knocking the staff from the mage’s hands.  That was the opening Fenris needed to…

 “Fenris, stop!” Hawke screamed behind him.

He hesitated, startled by her voice, and the strike of his sword fell harmlessly aside.  The man seemed relieved by the sight over Fenris’s shoulder, and held his hands up.  “Like I’ve been trying to tell you,” the mage began, rattled and breathless, “I’m Dorian Pavus, a friend of Hawke’s.”

 

* * *

 

After a strained introduction, they walked home in silence.  As they approached the door, Fenris watched Hawke invite the _magister_ inside with an uneasy smile on her face.  She turned to the twins, asking them to tend to some chore, but Fenris grabbed Malcolm by the collar.  “I need to talk to him first,” he growled.  The boy didn’t protest as Fenris dragged him by the arm out to the other side of the barn.

“You disobeyed me!” Fenris shouted.  He had meant to rein in the anger that had bubbled up from the adrenaline and fear, but he knew he was failing.

Malcolm scowled.  “El disobeys you all the time but you…”

“Lessons and chores?” Fenris cut him off.  “This was about your safety!”

“I’m old enough to fight,” Malcolm protested, his voice still and cold against Fenris’s heat.  “I can protect our family too.”

So many competing thoughts swirled through Fenris’s mind, too many.  There was the horrible, sinking realization that if it had been a real battle Malcolm could have been hurt _or worse_.  There was a glimmer of pride that his son had such courage.  There was the deep, old ache of fear at the very thought of a _magister_ in their midst, a scar that had been torn anew.  There was a curious sort of disbelief that the usually patient Malcolm would ever defy him and an equal curiosity at how his son had been able to fight so well.  He truly didn’t know if he should hug the boy or hit him.

He let out a frustrated growl and struck the wall beside him with such force that the whole barn seemed to shake.

“There will be a punishment,” Fenris finally grumbled.  “It may come after our _guest_ is gone, but I will discuss it with your mother and it will happen.”

Malcolm merely nodded, his face impassive.

“In the future, when I tell you to run, you will listen,” Fenris ordered, the fire in his voice subsiding.

“But…” Malcolm protested.  _Maker_.  Where was this boy suddenly finding a sense of rebellion?

Fenris growled low, his words dark and cold.  “I don’t care if you’ve seen thirteen summers or thirty.  I am your father, and if I tell you to run, you _will_ run.  Do you understand me?”

Malcolm looked at his feet, perhaps finally shamed into resignation or perhaps only placating him.  “Yes, Father.”

“Good,” Fenris sighed.  “Now, go help your sister.”

 

* * *

 

After supper, Hawke and Fenris had left the twins to prepare themselves for bed and invited their guest out to some chairs arranged beside the barn.  Dorian had brought two bottles of Aggrigio Pavali, one for Fenris as a peace offering, and one for the three of them to share.  Fenris was more than ready for a drink.

They had kept conversation light around the children.  Most of it had been banter between Hawke and Dorian about their adventures with the Inquisitor.  With the twins retiring and the wine bottle open, they had begun to address weightier topics.

Dorian wrinkled his nose in disgust.  “Danarius was not a man.  Rather he was equal parts pig and snake, coiled up and stuffed into the skin of a man.  You did Tevinter a service by killing him.  He was exactly the sort that gives our lovely country a bad name.”

Fenris took another drink and smirked.  “Then I suppose it would please you to know that he never spoke well of the son of House Pavus.”

“Oh it delights me,” Dorian replied with a grin.

Hawke smiled too.  “See, this is why I wasn’t particularly worried about the two of you getting along.”

“There is the difference that he sees Tevinter as redeemable,” Fenris said plainly.

“Oh, come now.  We make good wine, if nothing else,” Dorian argued.

Fenris frowned, swirling his glass before taking another sip.  “Have they figured out how to make it without blood magic?”

Hawke shot him a glare, but Dorian laughed.  “I thought it was the climate, but perhaps I should investigate.  At any rate, I’m not here to convert you to my cause.  I’m here to visit an old friend and train a young mage.”

Fenris sat back in his chair, arms crossed.  “I hope I don’t have to tell you where you’ll find my sword if there is even a suggestion of blood magic…”

Dorian cut him off, humor gone from his voice.  “I’d never teach such a thing.  I understand Danarius and his ilk were well-acquainted with such methods, but I was taught that blood magic is the _last resort of a weak mind_.”  Dorian smiled, and some levity returned to his voice.  “Your wife has informed me that necromancy is also off the table.”

Fenris stifled a growl by draining his glass and Hawke snickered.  Fenris poured himself more wine and glared at Dorian.  “I don’t suppose you’re going to claim Danarius was the only magister with slaves as well?”

Dorian sighed.  “No, the Pavus household has the typical quantity of slaves, at least on paper.  I have to keep up appearances, but there are no whips, no chains.  I pay them a small amount under the table, and the door is always open if they want to leave.  Even my father treated them well, but my time with the Inquisitor inspired me to do better.  _That_ is the sort of change I want to bring.  I can’t upend all of Tevinter, but I can improve it.  Or should I start blowing things up?  That could be faster…”

Fenris gave a half-amused snort, but Hawke shook her head and cringed.

“Too soon?” Dorian asked.  “Really?”  He sighed, but smiled.  “On to sunnier topics, then.  You know, Hawke, you weren’t kidding about Fenris.  He is indeed a _strapping_ fellow.  Unfortunately, his dour disposition would eventually bore me.”

That earned a giggle from Hawke.  “He’s an acquired taste.”

Dorian laughed.  “Though clearly one you favor.”

“Please, continue your discussion as if I’m not sitting right here,” Fenris growled, taking another drink of his wine.  He wasn’t drunk enough yet for this nonsense.

“You know you prefer this to us twittering behind your back,” Hawke laughed, rising from her seat and kissing Fenris on the cheek as she walked past.  “I’ll get us more wine… the Orlesian stuff.  The rest of the Aggrigio is all yours, dear.”


	5. Trial by Fire

* * *

Trial by Fire

Age 13 (continued)

* * *

 

Malcolm lobbed another fireball across the field, towards a waiting, smirking El.  She leapt from its path with ease, whirling around to slice at it with her sword.  Beside him, Malcolm heard an exasperated sigh.

Dorian waved his hands to stop both of the twins, stepping in front of Malcolm and dropping his voice too low for El to hear.  “Malcolm.  You’re holding back.”

The boy frowned.  “This is training.  I don’t want to hurt her.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed and his voice darkened.  “You _are_ hurting her, making her think she’s already fast enough to stand up to a mage in a real battle.”

Those words were like ice down Malcolm’s back.

“I saw how well you could attack when I was on the receiving end.  You need to practice at that level so that you both improve.  Come now,” Dorian said, snapping his fingers and raising his voice.  “Start again with the fire, but this time actually _try_ to hit her.”

Malcolm’s mind shifted to Tevinter and its mageocracy.  From what he had read, and what his father had told him, the place was ruthless.  Mages often ascended to power in Tevinter by killing other _mages_ , never mind little girls armed only with blades.  It made Malcolm wonder how Dorian had been trained.

Neither Bethany nor Merrill would have ever encouraged him to hit El with his magic.  They’d mostly had him training with wooden targets.  Only occasionally was he instructed to cast spells at them, well-shielded by their own magic.  Neither of them had even suggested that El train with them.  Dorian, on the other hand, was insistent, and El was enthusiastic.  Malcolm eyed his sister, one hand on her hip, the other clutching her short-sword.  Dorian was right, she deserved every opportunity to learn how to defend herself from magic.

Malcom took a fighting stance once more, and El grinned.

She deftly dodged his first few fireballs, but he increased the pace of his casting.  He was careful to keep them small, controlled, but El still yelped when the first one hit her.  The sound of his sister in pain stopped Malcolm cold, and he glared at Dorian.

El, however, was eager to continue.  “It’s hardly anything, Malcolm.  Keep going.”

Malcolm shook his head, crossing the field to take her singed arm in his hand.  His fingers lit green, and the wound quickly healed.  He turned to Dorian, expecting to be scolded.

“Incentives all around!” Dorian declared cheerfully.  “Even if El isn’t fast enough, Malcolm can practice his healing magic.  Good?  Yes?  Alright, continue.”

 

* * *

 

By noon, Malcolm was exhausted.  In addition to Dorian insisting that Malcolm cast more and more powerful blasts of fire, El had required healing several times.  She was grinning like a fool, unafraid of the burns Malcolm inflicted on her and excited by the new challenge his magic offered her.

“Well, my good man, you’ve done admirably this morning,” Dorian explained, chipper to the point that it irritated Malcolm.  “I do fear, however, that your previous tutors have been soft on you.  You are indeed skilled, but you have no stamina.  Clearly you’ve never been properly _challenged_.”

He knew Dorian’s words were true.  The bulk of his previous lessons had been about control, about restricting his magic to his will.  He had long surpassed the danger of his emotions triggering destructive outbursts.  This sort of training, aiming to unleash his magic, pushing himself to exhaustion, this was new.

“I’m better with ice spells…” Malcolm offered.  Compared to fire, ice was more about control, building, carving, shaping.  With ice he could show his new teacher the kind of magic he _was_ good at.

Dorian frowned.  “Yes, I can see that ice and healing come naturally to you, and that’s fine.  If you find yourself in a scrap, by all means, use what works best.  The point of training, however, is to improve, to expand the skills you have available to you.  In that spirit, I’m going to have to forbid you from using ice spells while I’m here.  You’ll keep to fire and lightning only, alright?”

Flashing a smile, Dorian began walking towards the house.  “After lunch we’ll get a lyrium potion in you and work on a different set of exercises.”

 

* * *

 

To say Malcolm was frustrated would be to put things mildly.

Dorian had tasked him with casting fire, not into balls or amorphous blasts, but into complex patterns.  If it had been ice, the certain, solid substance Malcolm could sculpt with his mere will, the patterns would have been a simple matter.  Fire was insubstantial, fluid.  Even the most basic patterns took all of Malcolm’s concentration just to craft, let alone hold for…

Dorian chuckled heartily and Malcolm’s patterned flames dissolved into the air.

“The nug is _Orlesian_ …” Dorian laughed again.  “My, that is one of the better jokes I’ve heard in a long while.  Did you make that up?”

“Uncle Varric taught me that one,” El explained, a hint of laughter in her own voice.  “Obviously I haven’t told it to mother.”

Dorian laughed again.  “I’ll have to scold the dwarf next time I see him.  Teaching young ladies bawdy jokes… tsk, tsk.  I can’t deny, however, that your delivery is perfect.”

“He said it was the tamest joke he could think of at the time.  Really,” El continued, her voice taking on an accusatory tone, “it’s only bawdy if your mind is already in the gutter.”

“Ah Eleuthera, if you had any idea how I spent my youth, you’d wonder how I’m able to pull my mind out of the gutter at all,” Dorian lamented, still smiling enough to make it clear he didn’t actually regret such a thing.  “You said you wouldn’t tell your mother, but what about your father?”

El grinned.  “Oh, he laughed.  He tried not to, but he couldn’t help it.”

“It really is all in the delivery, my dear,” Dorian asserted.  He turned to Malcolm, finally returning to the task at hand.  “How is your progress, Malcolm?”

All the young mage could manage was passive aggression.  “I don’t know.  How _is_ my progress?”

“If you could hold a pattern a bit longer, I’d be able to tell you.”  Dorian sighed, frowning slightly.  “Perhaps we’ve done enough for today.  Yes, we can pick it up fresh in the morning.”  The magister managed a smile before standing and walking back towards the house.

Malcolm shot off one more blast of flame, without any regard for the shape, merely to vent his frustration.  Maybe he could hold the pattern longer if Dorian and El would just shut up.

“Come now,” Dorian called over his shoulder, El at his heels.  “You’ve done enough for today.”

 

* * *

 

Before supper Malcolm followed his father outside to help bring in some firewood. 

“How are your lessons with Pavus going?” Fenris asked, stacking another log in Malcolm’s arms.

Malcolm sighed.  “Mother was right, he is a pleasant fellow, and I am learning a lot from his magic lessons… But Father, he is _never quiet_.  El talks too much sometimes, but she usually knows when I’ve had enough and leaves me be.  The pair of them together is horribly distracting.  I know I can concentrate better on my exercises.  I just wish he would just stop talking…”

Fenris snorted.  “I’d likely feel the same.”

Malcolm looked at his father, hopeful.  “Can you talk to Dorian, ask him…”

Fenris cut him off with a glare.  “You claimed you weren’t a child, but now you need your father to make such a simple request?”

Malcolm silently considered his words.

“I told you there would be a punishment for not heeding me,” Fenris began.  “Your mother has come up with extra chores, which you will do without complaint.  However, you will also address this issue with your teacher.  It’s more a lesson than a punishment, but it fits.”

Malcolm frowned. 

Fenris’s expression softened.  “Dealing with other people was somewhat forced upon me by your mother long ago.  I loathed it at the time, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good lesson.”

 

* * *

 

After supper, Malcolm snuck away to the grove of trees beyond the barn.  He was so sick of fire, he just wanted to cast a few ice spells to put his mind at ease.  He cycled through his favorite patterns, well-practiced and comfortable, smooth and precise.  A sphere.  A cube.  A pyramid.  A Chantry star.  He followed the shapes with more complex silhouettes.  The dragon sigil of Kirkwall.  The Fereldan mabari.  The Grey Warden griffin.  He returned back to a sphere when a low whistle made him jump.  The sphere crumbled to sparkling dust and fell to the ground.

“You’re _quite_ good at that,” Dorian mused.

Malcolm turned to face him, cheeks red with shame.  He shouldn't have disobeyed his teacher.  “Sorry… I know you said no ice… I just…”

“I should have been more clear,” Dorian replied with a sad smile.  “No ice spells while we’re training.  I’m not going to regulate your free time.  I will say, however, I think I was twice your age before I could cast ice spheres so flawlessly.”

Malcolm sighed.  “Thank you… both for allowing the spells and about the spheres.”

“I’m surprised you have the mana left to cast them, frankly,” Dorian explained.  “You were struggling so with the fire patterns.  I assumed you were worn out.”

“Oh… No, that wasn’t the issue,” Malcolm admitted.  “I just couldn’t concentrate.”

“You seemed more than able to concentrate just now, here in this… quiet… solitary… Forgive me, were you truly that distracted earlier?”

Malcolm nodded.  “You and El were quite… lively.”

“Ack!  I apologize, Malcolm.  Such conditions have never really affected me, so I didn’t think that I might be hampering you.  I’ll endeavor to either be quieter or… Would it suit you to attempt the patterns a few times on your own?  I assumed it would be best for me to monitor your progress, but maybe you could just check in with me every so often,” Dorian offered.

“I think I would do much better that way,” Malcolm agreed.  It felt like a weight had come off his shoulders. 

Dorian smiled.  “Yes, that’s completely fine.  I will expect you to cast them under less ideal conditions eventually, however.  A battlefield is a noisy place, after all.”

Malcolm nodded enthusiastically.  “No, of course!  I’ll practice them until I can cast with the sky crashing down around me.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian devised a new training schedule.  Malcolm sparred against El each morning, until his mana was spent or it was time for lunch.  In the first few days, his mana was the deciding factor.  Gradually, his stamina improved, and he didn’t even need a lyrium potion to make it through the rest of the day.  After an hour or two of food and rest, Malcolm would practice the patterns of fire and lightning that Dorian had showed him.  He practiced alone, as he preferred it, and was surprised at how quickly he was making progress.  Dorian spent that time chatting or playing chess with the rest of the Hawke family.  Any time Malcolm needed his input, it didn’t take long to find the magister, and Dorian was thoroughly impressed with his pupil’s progress.

It soon came time, however, for Dorian continue his travels.

“I have a suggestion,” Dorian declared at breakfast on the last day of his visit.  “I think Malcolm and I should have a duel.  Yes, a proper, Tevinter-style mage duel.  Only to first blood, of course.”

“Only?” Hawke replied.

“They are usually duels to the death,” Fenris explained dryly.

Hawke turned to Malcolm, doubtful.  “Are you up for something like that?”

In truth, Malcolm was unsure.  He _had_  faced Dorian before, but he'd had so many advantages.  Dorian had been trying to _stop_ that accidental skirmish, and Malcolm had fought with adrenaline and his father on his side.  A one on one duel with a battle-hardened magister sounded nearly impossible.  Still, he knew Dorian wouldn’t truly harm him.  Only his pride was at risk here, and even then, he’d merely be expected to hold his own.  Certainly he wouldn’t _win_ the duel.

“I think it would be good practice,” Malcolm said with a shrug.  El snorted a laugh.  Malcolm couldn’t decide if she had reached the same conclusion he had or if she was simply amused by the prospect of seeing him handily defeated.

Hawke smiled and sighed.  “We’ll cheer you on then, Malcolm.”

“I’d also like to impose an additional rule, to make it interesting,” Dorian explained.  “I will only summon ice, and Malcolm is only allowed to summon fire.  It would serve both as a handicap on me and a personal challenge for Malcolm.”  This wrinkle didn’t surprise Malcolm, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

Late morning found Dorian and the Hawke family out in the pasture.

“Twenty paces,” Dorian explained, “then you turn around and Miss Eleuthera will give the second signal.  Understood?”

“Yes, I understand,” Malcolm replied, hearing surprising confidence in his own voice.

Dorian grinned.  “Well, then.  Let’s begin.”

The two mages stood, facing away from each other, before El gave the first signal.  Malcolm walked twenty paces, trying to keep his strides long.  He judged that Dorian’s ice spells would cover less distance than fire spells did.  Yes, distance was his friend.  He wondered if Dorian was making the same calculation, and shortening his strides…

Twenty paces.

Malcolm stopped, turning to face Dorian and drawing his staff.  Dorian was still grinning, and had crossed a respectable distance.  El glanced back and forth between them, ensuring they were both ready, before she let out a shrill whistle.

Dorian wasted no time, flinging focused blasts of ice at Malcom.  The young mage, in turn, leapt even further back, tossing up a wall of fire to melt most of Dorian’s ice.  He cast fireballs at Dorian, which the magister blocked handily.

Despite finding his mana draining quickly, Malcolm was able to block spells pretty well himself.  As the duel wore on, Malcolm began to feel that Dorian was holding back, almost mocking him with large, sloppy ice chunks.  Malcolm always preferred to use his ice with so much more precision, and Dorian’s carelessness was beginning to irritate him.  The young mage tried to push such thoughts from his mind.  Getting worked up over such petty things would not help him in this duel.  Besides, Dorian’s rules were helping him learn, in the long run…

Dorian’s rules…

Malcom was only allowed to _summon_ fire.  Nothing in the rules prohibited Malcom from turning Dorian’s own ice against him.  A rare mischievous grin found Malcom’s face.  He had an idea.  It would cost nearly all of his dwindling mana, but if it worked, Dorian would be in for a surprise.

As Dorian summoned the next wave of misshapen ice projectiles, Malcom unleashed a meticulously crafted blast of fire.  Fire and ice met mid-air, melting the bulky chunks into sharp needles.  Woven into the summoned fire, Malcolm had included a blast of force magic.  He didn’t have much strength left, but it was enough to send the needles of ice flying back towards Dorian.  The magister realized the ice had turned on him with barely enough time to throw up an ice wall in defense.

Malcolm dashed to his right, hoping he could cast one last fireball around the ice wall while Dorian was still thrown by his trick.  He summoned the fire, but the fireball that came forth was weak and slow, barely making it across the field.  That was it, Malcolm’s mana was exhausted.  With a smile he sighed, turning to look for El, ready to yield the duel to Dorian.  Before he could, however, Malcolm heard her whistle carry across the field. 

El was his twin, but surely they weren’t so closely connected she could tell when his mana had run out?  She was beaming, but his parents looked stunned, and Dorian…

The ice wall was gone, and Dorian wore a wry smile.  “I’m impressed, Malcolm.”

Malcolm’s growing confusion must have shown on his face because Dorian chuckled.  The magister held up his forearm, a thin red line sliced across his skin.  “We did say this duel was to first blood, didn’t we?”

After a long, dazed silence, Malcolm stammered, “Why did you let me win?”  He truly could not believe that one of his ice needles had hit Dorian before he could block it.

Dorian shook his head, still smiling as he approached Malcolm.  “I’m hurt you think I would do such a thing.  It’s true, in a real battle this scratch would not be enough to save you.  I have thirty years on you, and the experience and mana pool that comes with that.  No, this duel wasn’t a battle of brute magical force.  It was a test of what you could accomplish before your mana ran out, not while chasing targets or practicing patterns, but while facing an enemy that fought back.  If you had just lobbed fireballs at me, I would have blocked every single one, and you would have lost.  Instead, you displayed cunning, tenacity, and resourcefulness.  You caught me by surprise.

“Tell me, Malcolm, would you have been able to cast such a controlled fire spell before our lessons?”

Malcolm shook his head.  “No, I could not have.”

“Well then, I’ve done my job as your teacher,” Dorian declared with a flourish and a bow.

Finally smiling himself, Malcolm extended his hand.  “Thank you, for teaching me.”

Dorian took his hand and shook it heartily.  “It has truly been a pleasure.  I know the status of southern mages is much improved, while my homeland is only a hair better than the hive of treachery your father so well-remembers… but if any of that ever changes, and you find yourself wanting an apprenticeship, my door is always open, Malcolm.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm replied.  “Though truthfully, I’m in no rush to leave Ferelden.”

Dorian laughed, “I understand.  I long ago learned it’s a lot more charming than the dog-filled mud pit most in the north take it for.  Still, the offer stands.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm repeated.  Before he let go of Dorian’s hand, he pulled the last dregs of his mana into a healing spell.  It didn’t take much to close the small cut, but Dorian raised an eyebrow in surprise.  “I may be better at fire spells than I was,” Malcolm explained, “but I’m still a healer first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Dorian.  I really hope we get to see more of him in the next game.


	6. A Hawke by Any Other Name

* * *

A Hawke by Any Other Name

Before

* * *

 

Varric leaned back in his chair and smiled.  It was good to see his friends again, even if their circumstances weren’t what he was used to.  The whole thing would be good for his writing, help him see new and exciting facets of their character.  For instance, he got to see a Hawke who had taken a sudden interest in scrubbing pots.

“Aren’t pregnant women supposed to rest, Hawke?” Varric chuckled.

“There’s too much to do,” she huffed.  He could hear her scowl, even with her back turned. 

Across the table from him, Fenris sighed.  “This is what she insists on doing lately, and I’ve learned it’s best just to let her.”

“Well, I had a mental image of her resting and the proud papa doing all the work,” Varric explained.

Fenris shook his head.  “The pot is already clean, Dwarf, that’s not the point.  I also don’t understand how you ever managed to conjure an image of _her_ resting.”  He turned to look at her and sighed again.  “Hawke, he’s right.  Why not sit with us for just a moment?”

She ignored him and continued scrubbing, but Varric was intrigued by something else.

“Wait, you still call her _Hawke_?”

Fenris shot him a questioning glare.

“I assumed by now you’d call her something else.  Marian maybe?” Varric offered.

The elf’s face softened a touch.  “I hadn’t even thought of it,” he contemplated.  “Hawke is Hawke.  Besides, she hates her given name.  Only her mother ever called her that.”

Varric frowned.  “You really don’t have a pet name, even with your relationship?  Even with a baby on the way?”

“Hmm… Would it confuse the child to also be called Hawke?” Fenris muttered.

“Oh?  The kid is taking Hawke’s name, not yours?”

Fenris rolled his eyes.  “You should have been able to piece this together yourself, but I don’t have a surname… Or, I didn’t until recently.”

“Eh?”

“My name is Hawke now too,” Fenris explained.

Varric jolted upright in his chair.  “When did this happen?”

“When we got married,” the elf stated dryly.  Clearly he didn’t realize just how juicy this news was.

Varric, on the other hand, was scandalized.  “Hawke!  Why didn’t you tell me?”

She turned and offered an apologetic smile.  “I knew I was forgetting something.  Sorry Varric, my mind is in a fog these days.”

“First, congratulations.  Second, I demand details,” Varric pressed.

Fenris took a sip of his tea like this wasn’t the second biggest bit of news the Hawke family had seen in a long while.  “The chantry here was suitable.  It was part of why we decided to stay in this town.”

“Haaawke,” Varric moaned.  “I know you can do better than that.”

She stopped scrubbing and turned to face them, leaning back against the wash stand and setting her crossed arms atop her belly.  “I wish we could have invited everyone, but the circumstances…”

Varric shook his head.  “No, Hawke, I understand that.  I’m just curious how it all played out.”

“Well, when I realized about the baby,” she began, unable to help the smile that crept onto her face, “we decided to get married properly.  While we traveled, we paid attention to different chantries.  Some were crawling with Templars, but the chantry in the town near here was quiet.  We tried to disguise ourselves and ask about getting married…”

“That was a big risk,” Varric scolded.

Hawke smiled a little wider.  “We’re no strangers to risk, Varric.  Besides, it was important to Fenris.”

Varric turned to the elf, who scowled.  “Hawke wasn’t… in the state she is now, and we were well-armed.  Though, none of that mattered in the end.  The chantry mother recognized us immediately and was oddly excited to see us.”

“She is something of a fan of your books,” Hawke laughed.  “She married us, and put it in the official Chantry records, but she used her knowledge of how the Chantry keeps those records to hide ours in plain sight.  This chantry does have one Templar, but he only joined the order because his sister was a mage and he wanted to protect her.  He’s actually a really nice guy, and we play cards with him sometimes.  The town seemed safe too.  The tavern owner was part of your _network_ , after all.”

Varric leaned back in his chair again.  “Yeah, but I only used his info once before.  Not much goes on out here.”

“He still knew how to reach you,” Fenris pointed out.

“Oh, he’ll be getting more of my attention now, believe me.”  Varric sighed thoughtfully.  “So, Marian Hawke, Fenris Hawke, and what will you name your little Hawkeling?”

“Malcolm for the boy,” Hawke explained, beaming.  “Fenris is still thinking for the girl.”

“ _The_ boy and _the_ girl?” Varric questioned.

Fenris shrugged.  “Hawke insists we’ll have twins.”

“Your tone suggests that you don’t agree,” Varric snickered.

“I’ve no way to know, but I don’t think we should assume…”

Hawke cut him off.  “I’m not assuming, Fenris.  I _know_.”

“As you say,” Fenris sighed.

Varric laughed in earnest.  “Well Elf, you have two names to think of then.  Something for one of your children, and something for Hawke herself.”

“He can keep calling me Hawke,” she muttered, turning back to scrubbing the pot.  “What does it matter?”

“You really hate Marian, don’t you?” Varric teased.

Fenris agreed with her.  “What does it matter?  Children call their parents Mother and Father, so she doesn’t need a new name.”

Varric rolled his eyes.  “And you, you’re really stuck in your ways, aren’t you?”  Fenris scowled and Varric laughed again.  “Fine, fine, I get it.  Hawke will always be Hawke.”

“Glad you understand, serah,” Hawke snorted.

Turning to Fenris, Varric lowered his voice.  “So what have you been doing while Hawke is like _this_?”

The elf raised his voice in mock accusation.  “I _try_ to help, when she _lets_ me.  She usually chases me out of the house, so I make myself useful by hunting.”

“We have enough ram jerky and boar sausage to last until the children are grown, Fenris,” Hawke muttered.  “Not that I don’t appreciate your efforts,” she added softly.

Fenris shook his head, but he was smiling.  “We won’t starve on my watch.  You’re the one convinced we’ll have _two_ extra mouths to feed.”

“We have the chickens too, you know.  There’s also the milk goat, just in case,” Hawke reminded him over her shoulder.  She was smiling now too.

“Hawke also _claims_ the rows of plants out there will bear vegetables at some point,” Fenris told Varric.

“What do you think my family _did_ in Lothering?”

Fenris shot Varric a knowing smirk.  “I mean no offense, Hawke.  Your homesteading skills are unexpectedly admirable.”

Varric resisted the urge to laugh, but he couldn’t help his grin.  It put him at ease, knowing the two of them were still bickering as usual.

Setting the first pot aside, Hawke began scrubbing a second one.  “We have plenty of coin for the things we are less skilled at,” she admitted.  “We bought cradles, clothes, that sort of thing.”

“As long as you remember who kept that coin out of Templar clutches,” Varric quipped.

Hawke offered him a genuine smile.  “Your masterful accounting is well appreciated.”

“I’m glad to hear the town merchants are well-stocked enough.  I worried, since this town was so small, but I guess I did see some merchants passing by on the road.  I saw some aravels too… Were the Dalish here recently?”

The sound of Hawke scrubbing away suddenly ceased, and Fenris shot Varric a look.  “Sorry I asked?” Varric offered tentatively.

“The encounter was _eventful_ ,” Fenris explained.

Hawke’s scrubbing resumed, though perhaps more aggressively than before.  Fenris looked at her, but she didn’t comment or turn to face him.  With a sigh, he continued.  “We were at the market yesterday and while Hawke was off talking to one of the merchants, I crossed paths with three of them.  Like Merrill, they mistook my markings for vallaslin.  They attempted to speak to me in Elven, but that, of course, failed.”

“I imagine your expression was somewhere between unamused brooding and smoldering death-glare,” Varric chuckled.

“Whatever my face looked like,” Fenris continued, rolling his eyes, “it encouraged them to switch to common tongue.  They asked what clan I was from.  I fought the urge to be… impolite.”

“A monumental feat for you, I’m sure,” Varric remarked.

“Hawke has suggested I _play nice_ with the locals, if not for my own benefit, then for our child’s… or _children’s_ ,” Fenris added, flashing a wry grin at Hawke.  “I can see the logic in that, so I _politely_ explained that I did not come from a clan.  I then had to _politely_ decline their offer that I join their clan.  They appeared disappointed, but did not press further.”

“Then I waddled over and they lost their shit,” Hawke sighed.  The intensity of her scrubbing had waned, but she still did not turn to look at either of them.

Fenris shook his head.  “It wasn’t just your approach, but that I put my arm around you.  They muttered some Dalish nonsense at us, and I gathered from the tone that it was _not_ polite.  One of them then decided to translate his sentiments into common tongue, mumbling something about _mating with shemlen_.”

“That’s how the whole market got to watch a bunch of elves curse at each other in languages that none of them understood…” Hawke explained softly.

“You can’t blame me for the Tevene,” Fenris grumbled.  “It’s far superior to common tongue for cursing.”

Varric glanced between Hawke and Fenris before sighing.  “So… What did you do with the bodies?”

Fenris actually snickered at that.  “It didn’t come to blows, oddly enough.  One of the old women in town started pointing her cane at them and shooed them off.  I believe her words were _you leave that nice boy alone_.”

“Nice… boy…?” Varric broke into uncontrollable laughter.

“Trust me, I was surprised as well,” Fenris replied with a smirk.

“What did you do, save her cat from a tree?” Varric asked.

Fenris’s eyes went wide.  “How did you know?”

“Wait… You actually saved her cat?  You’re shitting me,” Varric chuckled.

“I am not,” Fenris huffed.  “I wrenched the creature from the tree and I have the scars to prove it.  Though, truthfully, the old woman is likely more grateful that I pulled her grandson out of the well.”

Once more Varric found himself lost in laughter.  “Elf, you should realize that those are both such clichéd scenarios you can’t even use them in a story and expect anyone to take you seriously.”

Fenris shrugged.  “Perhaps they are clichéd because cats _do_ climb trees and children _do_ fall into wells.  Nevertheless, the old woman was appreciative and her scolding was enough to make the Dalish leave.  They were muttering about _shems_ the whole way, but they did leave.”

“Well Hawke, your encouragement that Fenris play nice seemed to have worked,” Varric declared.  “That’s worth a drink, isn’t it?  This tea is lovely and all, but I brought some ale.”

Hawke set the second pot aside and smiled weakly.  “Actually, I think I should take a nap.  You guys have fun, play cards or something.  I’ll be up in a little while for supper.”

“Oh… Okay…”  Varric hardly knew what to say.  He watched as Hawke shuffled past Fenris, who smiled at her, caught her arm, and kissed her hand.  She smiled back, but even Varric could tell something was off.

“What did I say?” Varric asked Fenris once she had closed the bedroom door behind her.

“It’s nothing you said,” Fenris sighed.  “Come, and bring your ale.  We’ll sit outside so we don’t have to worry about waking her.”

“Won’t she be mad we’re drinking it without her?”

Fenris shook his head and grabbed two mugs as he led the way.  “Anders told her once that a mother’s drinking can harm her baby, so she hasn’t touched a drop.”

Varric let out a low whistle.  “Someone needs to pass that information on to every dwarven mother ever.”

“Hawke is not a dwarf,” Fenris pointed out, settling into a chair on the porch.

“She’s also not an elf, which is what those Dalish were getting at,” Varric sighed.

“I regret not cutting them down for insulting Hawke, despite her insistence on decorum.  The Dalish would do well to keep their opinions to themselves,” Fenris grumbled, “though I’ve never met one who could.”

Varric pulled the stopper from the ale jug and filled both cups.  “Me either, actually.  The pretentious bastards have a point, though.  Your kids will look like humans, not elves.”

Fenris took a swig and shrugged.  “I’ve heard people love their children no matter what they look like.”

“Well, yes, at least that’s the theory.”

“All I have to go on is theory,” Fenris muttered.

Varric didn’t like the defeat in his tone, but he forced a smile.  “Is Papa Hawke getting the new father jitters?”

“Is that a thing?”

“Sort of?  Maybe?”  Varric sighed.  “It’s normal to be nervous about new things, right?”

“Is it normal that I’ve never even held a child before?” Fenris asked.

Varric shrugged.  “Maybe one of the villagers will let you practice.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “The old woman may have decided that I’m nice enough, but I assume everyone else just sees the _broody_ elf with the big sword.  I don’t exactly project a nurturing aura, Dwarf.”

The elf fell silent, looking out across the field and into the forest beyond.  “When Hawke first told me about the child, I was more certain.  I simplified fatherhood into providing and protecting.  I’ve since realized that we only need so much meat, and this place… This place is quiet enough that I almost feel I could put away my sword.  _Almost_.  We may face an attack occasionally, we may have to flee someday, but this is not Kirkwall.  There are not bandits around every corner.  It has been months since I drew my sword on anything other than wild game.”

“Getting bored out here?”

“No,” Fenris replied quickly.  “The peace is welcome.  It just...  It makes me question my role in all this.  What am I suited for but fighting?  What if I’m _too_ suited for fighting?  I almost hit a child, once, at the Kirkwall alienage.  Merrill had dragged me there for… I forget, but the children swarmed her.  She laughed and patted them on the head like it was second nature, but when one hugged my leg it took a frightening amount of control for me not to strike the child on mere instinct.  I pray such a thing will be easier with my own child, but it’s obvious that the witch will make a better parent than I will.”

Varric offered a smile.  “I think you’re suited for fatherhood just fine.  Kids need more than food, and you’ll figure out how to give them what they need.  I’m sure your instincts will change, too.  They changed for Hawke, I saw that firsthand.”

“What do you mean?”

Taking a long draught, Varric explained.  “Back in the old days, when Hawke was so good at finding trouble for us, I usually had a pretty good view of the battlefield and your fighting style.  When we started you were the lone wolf, charging ahead, swinging your sword around.  It was obvious you were used to fighting alone, and the rest of us made sure to give you a wide berth.  Eventually, something shifted.  No matter how crazy the battle was, Hawke could run up _right behind you_ with her daggers, and you never hit her.  The first time I saw her do it, I was sure you’d slice her in half, on instinct or on accident, but no.  You didn’t just not hit her, you adjusted, accounted for her.  The pair of you were damn good at taking out enemies together.”

“That… I did not realize,” Fenris replied softly.

“And don’t compare yourself to Daisy,” Varric scolded.  “Yes, she’s a natural with kids, but she was her Keeper’s First too.  I’m sure that gave her plenty of experience taking care of people and looking after little ones.  She’s even started taking in orphans, forming her own sort of clan.”

Fenris snorted.

“Hey, I’m all for anything that makes friendlier Dalish,” Varric laughed.  “Besides, I’m happy to see Daisy happy.”

Their talk shifted to how all their companions were doing, and soon the sun sank towards the horizon and the promise of supper beckoned them.

“Go see if Hawke is up and I’ll bring in some more firewood,” Fenris said as he stood and stretched.

Varric nodded and strode into the house, surprised to find Hawke tending a pot of stew.

“Are we ready to eat?” she asked with a smile that was a little too forced for Varric’s liking.

“Yeah, but first I need you to tell me what’s eating _you_.”

For a moment it seemed she would evade his question, but instead she put the lid on the stew and sat down with a sigh.  “Am I that obvious?”

“Yes.  Even your elf would see it, if he wasn’t so preoccupied with his own concerns.”

She frowned.  “What is he concerned about?”

Varric shook his head.  “No, Hawke.  You first.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” she relented with a scowl.  “Yesterday’s mess with the Dalish got to me a lot more than I thought.”

“You decided elves and humans shouldn’t be together anymore?” Varric asked with obvious sarcasm.

“Of course not,” Hawke growled.  “Just… Even though Fenris is their father, the children will look like humans.  Would he have been better off…?”

Varric interrupted her.  “Don’t even start down that road, Hawke.  You’re the one he’s always wanted and he doesn’t seem to give a nug’s arse who the kids look like.  His only regret about the Dalish incident is that he didn’t kill them for their _impoliteness_.  He’s far more concerned about whether or not he’ll be a good father.”

Her eyes went wide.  “Of course he will.  He…”

“Tell _him_ , Hawke,” Varric ordered.  “I agree with you wholeheartedly, and I told him so myself, but you’re the one he really needs to hear it from.”

“I… I understand.  Thank you, Varric.”  Hawke clapped him on the shoulder.

He grinned.  “I’m not your favorite dwarf for nothing, Hawke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last fictlet I've written so far, but I have several more ideas in various states of development. Look forward to more, and please, feel free to let me know what you think. Thanks!


	7. The Weight of a Blade

* * *

The Weight of a Blade

Age 9

* * *

 

Though months had turned to years, El hadn’t quite made up her mind about Malcolm being a mage.  Most of the time, she forgot about it entirely.  He didn’t talk about it much, and his quiet personality meant their family had little to fear in the way of accidental fires.  Though life felt just the same most of the time, sometimes El was jealous.  Sometimes magic was like a shiny toy that only Malcolm was allowed to play with. 

El hated that when Aunt Bethany last came to visit, she had spent all her time with Malcolm.  El hated that even after Aunt Bethany had left, their mother spent extra time with him.  Their mother wasn’t even a mage, but she insisted on passing down the lessons she remembered from her childhood.  No one else in town had grown up with a mage for a father or a sister, she explained.

It all made sense, and even if El sometimes hated it…

“Blade up!” Fenris growled.  “Keep daydreaming like that and your opponent will run you through.”

…sometimes it meant she got extra sword training, just her and her father.

El lifted her sword and improved her stance.  He was right.  This was no time to be distracted.  Before Malcolm turned into a mage, they had always practiced with blades together.  Sparring with their mother was like trying to catch a flitting bird, and the twins were evenly matched.  Where El had all the speed, Malcolm had all the patience.  Sparring with their father, though, was like trying to dodge some ferocious beast.  Patience wouldn’t save you.  You had to be quick enough to skirt some blows and strong enough to shrug others aside.  More than once, Malcolm had stumbled as he parried a blow from their father, and the lesson had suddenly become more cautious, more tame.  El _hated_ that.  She didn’t want to be coddled, and if Malcolm was off doing magic, her father did not coddle her.

When his sword next slashed towards her, she had to roll to avoid the strike.  As she dove for the dirt, she kept a tight grip on her sword.  _Never drop your sword_.  Springing to her feet, she brought her sword around, held it up just in time to block the blow that came next.  _Always expect the next blow_.  The clang of metal rang in her ears and the impact reverberated through her arm, but she kept her stance.  _Never lose your footing_.

Her father smiled.

“Your form has improved lately,” Fenris noted, lowering his blade.  He reached out and ruffled her hair, and she felt herself smiling too.  Her father was not loose with his praise.  If he said such a thing, he meant it.

Fenris glanced at the fading sun and sighed.  “It’s just about time for supper.”

El would have loved to keep training, but she _was_ hungry.  She set her sword against the rack in the shed beside them.  “I’ll go get Mother and Malcolm,” she called, scampering off.

“Eleuthera.”

El froze.  Her father’s tone was calm, but she knew better than to ignore him when he used her full name.  “Yes?” she asked, turning to face him.

“You should oil your sword before you put it away.”

“Can’t I do it tomorrow?  It’s just a practice sword…”

Fenris frowned at her.  “A practice sword is all you’ll have until I see that you can take care of it properly.”

 _Always maintain your weapons_.

 

* * *

 

El hefted the weight of the parcel in her hands and watched as her brother did the same.

“Go ahead, open them,” Hawke encouraged, grinning.  Fenris stood beside her, one corner of his mouth turned up in a subtle smile.

Eager, El stripped away the cloth, unraveling the parcel and unveiling the prize inside.  The blade gleamed in the sunlight, the grip was wrapped in ram leather, and the pommel was stamped with the Hawke crest.  The dagger was of plain design but fine craftsmanship, and it was _hers_.  That alone made it the most beautiful dagger El had ever seen.

“This is really for me?” El asked, already beaming.

“Yes, if you take care of it,” Fenris explained.

Hawke nudged him in the ribs and he scowled.  “Your father is right, you should take good care of them, but they are yours.”

They?

El turned to see Malcolm holding a matching dagger.  What did a mage need with a dagger?  A selfish, childish voice in El’s head told her that her dagger couldn’t be _that_ great if her mage brother had the same one.  It was a tiny voice, but its words stung all the same.

“Thank you,” Malcolm said, smiling.  “I’ll take good care of it… just…  Does a mage need a dagger?”

Fenris nodded.  “We’re not letting either of you go about life unprepared.  You might find your magic silenced, just as El might be stripped of her sword.  You should always carry more than one weapon.”

“We intend to have a staff made for you, Malcolm,” Hawke explained, “and a proper sword for El.  We wanted those to be a surprise, too, but we thought it best if you could choose some of the characteristics of the weapons yourselves.  You’re both growing up, learning what suits you.  It certainly won’t be the last sword or staff crafted for you, but it will be the first.”

El felt suddenly ashamed and pushed the tiny, childish voice as far from her mind as she could.

“Thank you,” she replied, feeling the weight of the blade in her hand.

 _Always carry more than one weapon_.

 

* * *

 

“ _Fasta vass_ , Jack, you’re a cheater!” El shouted.

The boy just laughed.  “That sounds a lot like a loser’s excuse.”

“I would have won!”  El was sure he had cheated, and the smug grin on his face was proof.

Jack spun the ball in his hands, walking closer and leaning down until his nose nearly touched hers.  “Nah, you lost.”

That was the last straw.  Incensed, El reached for the dagger at her hip.  She would challenge him to a duel.  She would…  As her fingers closed around the leather grip, something clamped down on her wrist, so cold it burned.

Malcolm…

"We're done playing for today, Jack,” Malcolm muttered beside her.  His green eyes were hard as the steel beneath El's fingers and his voice cold as the ice beneath his own.  El tugged against her brother’s grip, but he only held her wrist more tightly.

Jack shrugged, turning away and tossing the ball in the air as he walked.  “Fine.  My da will have my hide if Pri and I are late for supper anyway.  Bye Hawkes!”  His sister offered them a chubby smile and a wave before scurrying after him.  That left Rall standing in the field with them, his eyes wide as saucers.

“We can play again tomorrow,” Malcolm offered, shooting the boy an apologetic look.  Rall nodded, waved nervously, and slipped away as well.

Once their friends had all disappeared over the next hill, Malcolm dropped El’s wrist.  "Sorry... Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine," she muttered.  Malcolm had changed when he became a mage, El was sure now.  He was always so quiet before.  He never stood up to her, not really, not like this.

"You're sure?  I can heal it..."

"How about you just don't do it in the first place?” El snapped.  “You can't just fix everything with magic, you know."

"I know that," Malcolm muttered bitterly.  "That's why I had to stop you..."

"Well you shouldn't have stopped me.  I was going to give Jack a piece of my mind and..."

"And _what_?"  Malcolm’s voice was calm, cool, but there was a hint of accusation that set El’s blood boiling.

"I was going to _fight_ him.  He was cheating!"

"It wouldn't have been a fair fight, El."

She gritted her teeth.  "I know he's bigger than me, but I could take him!  Even with all three of them, I could..."

Malcolm frowned.  "Three?  You're really including little Pri in something like this?"

He was right.  The girl was barely off her mother's apron strings... "Fine, two on two then."

"Rall is my best friend after you.  I'm not using my magic or my dagger on him," Malcolm explained, the bitterness and accusation in his voice replaced with exasperation.  "I mean that even if it was just you against Jack, it's not a fair fight for _Jack_."

El was baffled.  "He's bigger than me," she repeated.

"And you're faster, better trained, and better armed."

"He has a dagger, too, you know,” El argued.

"He has a rusty old knife he filched from his father’s toolbox," Malcolm sighed.

El was out of arguments.

Malcolm's voice softened then.  "I meant what I said, about fixing things with magic.  I'm sorry for holding you back, but I was afraid you'd hurt Jack worse than I know how to heal, El."  He offered a hesitant smile.  "Jack's a bit of a tit, but he's still our friend and I don't think you want him dead any more than I do."

Malcolm was right.  Maker... why was Malcolm _always_ right?

"How do you _do_ that?" El muttered.

"Do what?"

"How do you stay calm enough to think about a hundred little things, all in time to stop me from doing something stupid?"

"I just don't want anyone getting hurt."  There was something in Malcolm’s voice underneath his sheepish tone, and something in his expression as he turned away from her.  El’s mind flashed to the look of fear in his eyes that day she fell in the river, and suddenly she understood.  In so many ways he was still the nervous little boy he had always been, but he _was_ different.  He had gotten stronger, strong enough to stand up to her, but that strength didn't have anything to do with magic. 

El sighed.  "Yeah, well… thanks.  Jack's not the only one being a tit today.  Promise you won't tell Mother and Father?"

"Yeah, but you better let me heal your wrist or they'll ask what happened,” Malcolm fussed.

“Fine, fine.”

 _Never forget the weight of your blade_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With great power comes great responsibility.


	8. Unwelcome Letters

* * *

Unwelcome Letters

Age 17

* * *

 

Hawke leaned back in her chair, enjoying the cool autumn breeze through the open doorway and the warm cup of tea in her hands.  She glanced at Fenris, stretched out in a chair beside the hearth, reading.  He was wearing the spectacles Varric had recently sent.  They were ingenious dwarven things, made of finely polished glass set in a wire frame.  They made reading easier, just as Varric had touted, and there was something refined and _handsome_ about the way Fenris looked in them.  She’d have to thank her favorite dwarf for that.  She also decided she’d have to cuddle up to her favorite elf, once she finished her tea.  Hawke smiled and sighed to herself.  This was one of those quiet, perfect moments…

“Hawke!” called a young boy, running up to the doorway.

So much for quiet.

Hawke set down her tea and went to the door.  The boy was the tavern owner’s grandson, and that meant only one thing…

“Urgent news from Messere Tethras,” he gasped, thrusting a letter towards her.

“Thank you,” Hawke told him, flashing a smile as the boy scurried off.  She looked down at the letter and her smile faded. 

_Elf_

That was all that was written on the envelope.  Usually Varric addressed his letters with something obscure or amusing.  Over the years some of her favorites had been _The Whole Nest_ , _My Favorite Former Cham…You-Know-What_ , _You Had Those Broody Babies After All_ , and _Please Come Take Your Job Back_.  Of course it was always a bit coded, as Varric reminded her that you never knew what kind of crazy was out there still holding a grudge after twenty years.  That need for vagueness meant that Varric’s letters were never quite private things, inevitably read by the whole family.  This was the first time, however, that she’d seen a letter clearly addressed to Fenris.

Fenris hadn’t so much as looked up from his book, but Hawke approached him anyway.  “It’s for you, love.”

With a rumbled sigh, he marked his page and sat up straighter.  “What is it?”

Concerned as she was, Hawke couldn’t help but smile as she held it out to him.  “It’s a _letter_.”

Fenris tilted his head and shot her an exasperated glare over the top of his spectacles.

“It’s addressed directly to you, Fenris.  I haven’t even opened it.”

He hummed disapprovingly, but took the letter.  “The dwarf hasn’t addressed a letter to _me_ since…” 

 _Since the Inquisition_ , Hawke finished silently.

Fenris opened the envelope and unfolded the letter inside, frowning when another folded bit of parchment fell out onto his lap, but ultimately ignoring it.  He started to read the first letter, but quickly growled and snatched up the second.  Nearly the moment he unfolded the second letter, his jaw clenched.  As he continued to read, Hawke watched his expression shift from agitation to outright fury.  In one swift movement he crushed the letter in his hand, stood from his chair, and moved to toss the letter into the fire.

“What does it say, Fenris?” Hawke asked, forcing her tone to stay cool and even.

He froze, clenching the letter tighter.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“If you’re this upset, it matters,” Hawke said softly, taking his empty hand in hers.  “Really, love, what do you have to hide from me at this point?”

Grumbling curses under his breath, he handed her the letter, crossed his arms, and leaned back wearily against the arm of the chair.

After offering him a faint, apologetic smile, Hawke smoothed the crumpled parchment and began to read:

 

_Leto,_

_I am writing to beg you, with my very life, to save my daughter._

_After what passed between us, I swore I would never contact you again.  Now, none of that matters.  My daughter has been captured and enslaved by Magister Vacurian.  Like you, she had too much of our father’s spirit.  She wouldn’t listen when I told her to keep away from Vacurian’s driver, spouting nonsense about love.  One wrong step caused an altercation, and she was simply dragged away._

_There was a so-called trial, where she was found guilty and given over to him as a slave.  Under the new laws, I managed to file an appeal... to buy time…  He shouldn’t be able to harm her until then, but I still fear what he will do to her._

_I can’t challenge this magister, I know neither can you, but I also know you have powerful friends.  Please, Leto… Fenris, I have nowhere else to turn.   Save her and I will give you anything you ask, even my own life.  Please._

_~ Varania_

 

Hawke finished the letter and looked at Fenris.  He had folded up the spectacles and wiped the anger from his face.  “You have a niece,” she whispered.

Fenris snatched the letter back.  “Likely dead already…”

“ _That_ is where your mind goes first?”  Hawke studied his expressionless façade, a practiced mask that hid the pain everywhere but his eyes.  “Fenris…” 

She closed the distance between them, sliding her arms around his shoulders and burying her face in the crook of his neck.  “I know.  You have every right to hate her.  If you had killed her back then, I wouldn’t have thought any less of you.  I was glad you let her live, though… Not for her, for you.  Killing her would have only caused you pain.” 

He growled, but she continued.  “Her daughter never wronged you, Fenris.  If we don’t do _something_ , will you truly be able to live with that?”

Fenris was still and quiet for a long time.  Finally, he whispered, “Going back there…”

Hawke kissed him, shaking her head as she pulled away.  “Maybe there is something else we can do.  Maybe Dorian would have some idea.”  She stepped back and picked up the first letter from where it lay on the chair.  She instantly recognized Varric’s hand:

 

_Broody,_

_First, I’m sorry for reading your mail.  It gave me a bad feeling, and I just wanted to look out for a friend (yeah, that’s right, you).  Please read the enclosed letter first.  Seriously.  Please._

_Read it?  Good._

_My first instinct was that this was a trap, given what happened with this woman last time.  The problem is, my sources in Tevinter say that her story checks out.  She has a daughter, and the daughter is being held prisoner by this Vacurian.  I immediately took care of the obvious and spoke to Sparkler._

_He tried.  He really tried.  The magister wasn’t willing to sell her… something about too much pride on the line.  He also tried threats, hinted at favors, but this guy isn’t biting.  The whole scenario offends Sparkler’s sensibilities, but he’s in a difficult political position.  The concept of appeal is part of his reform initiative, and Vacurian is following the law to the letter.  Because of that, Sparkler can’t exactly challenge this guy to a duel.  It would undo too much of the good he has managed over the years._

_Sparkler did say that this magister is not the best fighter.  If a different mage challenged him, one who didn’t care about making enemies in Tevinter, it should be an easy win.  I don’t suppose the Wardens would let Sunshine take a little detour north?  Maybe you have some new sparkly friends out there in the middle of nowhere?_

_The girl’s appeal will be held at the end of Harvestmere.  We have time to figure this out, but not much._

_Believe me, I’ll keep trying behind the scenes, but it doesn’t look like anything short of violence will solve this.  On the other hand, I don’t blame you one bit if you just want to drop the whole thing.  This kind of shit offends my sensibilities too, but it’s just another Tuesday in Tevinter.  If you think of a way I can help, I will.  If you want me to back off, I will._

_~ Your Favorite Dwarf_

 

Damn.

Hawke handed Varric’s letter to Fenris.  “His best plan is Bethany challenging this magister to a duel.  I’m sure she would be willing, but she won’t get the chance.  Her last letter mentioned a months-long expedition into the deep roads.  There’s not enough time…” she trailed off, watching Fenris’s face as he read Varric’s letter for himself.

He sighed, pained but resigned.  He then gathered both letters and folded them back into the envelope, setting it down on the chair.  “The dwarf left out the obvious option, though likely on purpose.”

Hawke frowned.  “I know how you think, love.  Don’t you _dare_ tell me your idea of _obvious_ is a one-elf rescue party.”

Fenris scowled.  “I was ready to throw the letter in the fire, but you so kindly insisted I’m not _quite_ that cruel.  Now you really suggest I do nothing?”

“Not alone, you shouldn’t.” Hawke replied, with more volume and anxiety than she intended.

“You went to Adamant alone,” he pointed out, his voice even, almost soft.  It was a statement, not an accusation.  When Hawke failed to respond, he spoke for her.  “I know.  This is different.  That was Thedas.  This is one girl.  That endangered our children.  This does not.  Even so, the fate of _everything_ wasn’t worth getting us _both_ killed.  How can you say that one girl is?”

“What girl?”

The sound of El’s voice from the open doorway made them both jump.  She strode across the room, casually snatching up the envelope before Fenris even moved to stop her.

“El,” Hawke began sternly, “that is addressed to your father.”

“Yes,” El admitted, unfolding the letters nonetheless.  “Normally I wouldn’t intrude, but whatever is written here has the two of you bickering over who gets to go off and get killed.  So, as a loving and devoted daughter, I have no choice but to read it.”

Hawke opened her mouth to object, but Fenris shook his head.  “What’s the point?” he grumbled.

El’s eyes darted over the text, first of Varania’s letter, then of Varric’s.  When Malcolm walked through the door with a fresh pheasant slung over one shoulder and a satchel of herbs across the other, El didn’t skip a beat, shoving the letters at him.  “Read these.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, but set the pheasant down and began reading without comment.

“When were you going to tell us we had a cousin?” El asked, turning to Hawke and Fenris and crossing her arms.

“How did you…” the words slipped from Hawke’s tongue before she realized they would only confirm El’s suspicions.  How _did_ the girl know?  The name Varania had been left out of both Varric’s book and Fenris’s explanations of his life.

Malcolm answered by reading aloud from Varania’s letter, “ _Like you, she had too much of **our** father’s spirit_.”

Hawke sighed, reminded of the times Fenris complained that their children were too clever.  “That letter is the first we’ve heard of Varania’s daughter,” Hawke admitted. 

El frowned and shook her head, as if disbelieving.  “You really haven’t talked to your sister in over a decade?”

“I   do   not   have   a   sister,” Fenris ground out.

“I can’t imagine ever being so angry with Malcolm that I’d disown him,” El muttered in response.

Hawke expected Fenris to either explode or shut down, but instead he let out a heavy sigh.  “Your brother would never sell you to a magister for his own gain, and you would not betray him either.”

That stunned El into silence.

Malcolm, meanwhile, carefully folded both letters back into the envelope and handed it to Fenris.  “When are we leaving?” he asked calmly.

“ _We?_ ” Fenris spluttered.

“Of course,” Malcolm explained.  “It sounds like challenging this magister is the best course of action, and it makes sense for me to do it.  I’d just be an inconsequential Fereldan to them, not tied up in Tevinter politics at all.  Certainly I’d like Dorian’s counsel on the best strategy to use against this Vacurian, but if Dorian doesn’t consider him a formidable opponent, I don’t see how I can’t try.”

Hawke’s heart leapt to her throat.  “Absolutely not, Malcolm.  You’re too young.”

Malcolm shook his head.  “Seventeen is more than old enough.  Tevinter law merely prohibits duels by mages under the age of ten.”

 _Ten_ … At ten Malcolm had still been afraid to go into the woods at night by himself.  At ten Malcolm had still needed a hug and a glass of milk to fall asleep after a nightmare.  At ten Malcolm had still very much been a little boy... objectively, not just though her eyes as his mother.  Ten wasn’t so long ago, yet the son that stood in front of her now was certainly not a little boy.  He was as tall as Fenris, and in his mud-splattered cloak with his staff on his back, he looked even older than seventeen.

Hawke sighed.  How could she talk Malcolm out of this?  _Should_ she talk Malcolm out of this?

Unaware of Hawke’s thoughts, Malcolm continued.  “At least, those are the laws for humans.  The Lucerni have improved the standing of elves, but the Magisterium still clings to certain rules.  Elven liberati are prohibited from even challenging magisters to duels, and that exclusion applies to elven foreigners as well.  That’s probably why Uncle Varric suggested Aunt Bethany but not Merrill.”

It was also why Varania could not face the magister herself.

“Forget about Imperial law,” Fenris growled.  “Your mother and I will discuss our own plans later, but none of them include bringing either of you to that vile place.”

El and Malcolm shared a knowing look.  “We’re going, even if you don’t go with us,” El declared firmly.

Fenris clenched his jaw and his fists, ready to argue with El, but Malcolm spoke first.

“Father, I don’t want shying away from this to be the first thing I might truly regret about my life,” Malcolm began, his voice soft and even.  “I would like to _try_ to save my cousin, even if I ultimately can’t help her, and I would like to see your homeland, even if it’s ultimately vile.  I would rather do those things with you than without you.”

Hawke knew her husband well.  She knew he was a difficult man to sway, even in the best of circumstances.  She also knew how to read the way his fingers relaxed and his shoulders softened at Malcolm’s words.  She knew how to read the strange look of resignation in his eyes, somehow pleased and afraid all at once.  The children tended to bring that out in him.

“Your father and I will discuss it,” Hawke finally answered after a lingering silence.  El smirked and Malcolm nodded.

Hawke would have to contact Varric about booking passage across the Waking Sea, for four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus I begin a multi-chapter Hawke family road trip. It won’t be up right away, because although I’ve planned it out, it’s not fully written. I promise not to leave the story hanging for too long.
> 
> I hope you’re enjoying the stories so far. I hope there is enough FenHawke. I hope the Hawkelings’ personalities are interesting enough and their descriptions are vague enough to let your imaginations fill in the blanks.
> 
> Also, Fenris is at least 50 by now, so reading glasses seem reasonable. The technology doesn’t seem beyond the scope of Thedas and even if people ordinarily fix their eyes with magic, I doubt Fenris would be up for that. (Really, the image of Fenris in glasses just sounds too good to pass up.)


	9. Unexpected Plans

* * *

Unexpected Plans

Age 17 (continued)

* * *

 

El drank in the salt spray coming off the bow of the ship and let out a blissful sigh.  The wind in her hair, the sound of the waves, the shimmer of light on the water… it was _lovely_.  She had spent her whole life in the fields and the forests and the hills, and she had never considered that there could be someplace _better_.  Now, she knew.  _The sea was better_.

The rest of her family did not share her enthusiasm.  Her mother smiled, placating her with halfhearted agreement that the water was pretty.  Her father shrugged, commenting that the open sea smelled fine, but ports reeked of fish and ships always ended up in ports.  Malcolm… El let out a disappointed sigh and pushed away from the ship’s rail.  It had been a while since she last checked on him.

El found Malcolm exactly where she’d left him, in his cabin with the shades drawn over the window.  He sat at the little desk beside the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and crumbing herbs into a mug with the other.  El didn’t think she’d ever seen someone look quite so _green_.

“That tea again?” she asked softly, sitting down on the bed.

Malcolm sighed.  “It’s the only thing that helps.”

“Why don’t you just drink a whole bunch then?  Add twice the herbs?”

The ship pitched against an errant wave and Malcolm’s face soured.

“Because,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “it will put me out cold if I take too much.”

“Isn’t sleeping preferable to _this_?”

“If we were at home, yes,” Malcolm admitted wearily, conjuring a flurry of ice that swirled into the mug.  “If we were at home I could chance that kind of unnatural sleep, but we’re not at home.  We’re sailing dangerous seas towards a dangerous city.”  His fingertips lit with fire magic and the ice in the mug began to melt and then steam.  “I can probably manage to cast spells and wretch up my breakfast at the same time, but I’d be worse than useless if I overdosed on this remedy.”

El frowned.  “Just sleep, Malcolm.  I can protect you.”

Malcolm took a long draught of the tea.  “I’ve no doubt you’d try, but if the ship is sunk by pirates, how will you fight them off _and_ keep my unconscious body afloat?”

“I’m sure I can convince Mother and Father to help keep you alive,” El replied with a wry smile.

He gave an amused snort and drank another mouthful of tea.  “I’m not so sure.  They’ve been spending an awful lot of time in their cabin…”

“Yes… I’ve been trying not to think about that.  It’s enough to make even nugs blush,” El muttered, shaking her head but still smiling.  “Mother told me she had fond memories of a ship like this.  Then she looked at Father and practically _giggled_.”

That made even Malcolm chuckle.  Perhaps the boat had hit a patch of calm water, or perhaps the tea was quickly kicking in, but El was grateful to see Malcolm looking a bit better.  She gave his shoulder a squeeze.  “Let me know if you need anything.  This is the part of the journey you’ll be able to relax the most, you know.”

Malcolm sighed but offered her a smile.  “Don’t worry about me, El.  I’ll be fine once we reach land, and I do enjoy the view, even if I can’t look at it very long.  I won’t lie, though.  Once this whole journey is over, I’ll be in no hurry to get on a ship ever again.” 

 

* * *

 

The port reeked of fish, as Fenris had expected.  It also reeked of desperation, and though he had once commented on the smell in the Hanged Man, nothing produced that scent quite like slaves fresh off a ship.  Someone else might have been able to pull down his hood and scurry to the waiting carriage unaware, but Fenris had always been the observant sort.  He eyed the lines of shackled bodies being herded by slavers with shouts and whips, and his fingers twitched for his sword.  The nearest slaver was lightly armored and inattentive.  Fenris could cut him down silently and move on to the next one, leaving Hawke to flank…

Fenris cut his thoughts short.  That would work on the Wounded Coast.  Here, in Qarinus, the Imperial soldiers would be on them almost instantly.  No, the only slave he would be able to free on this voyage would be Varania’s daughter, Larina.  Sighing, Fenris tugged the hood of his cloak down lower and turned his gaze away from the slaves.

The carriage, like the ship, was staffed by dwarves.  Varric had insisted it was safer that way.  You never knew which humans you could trust in the Imperium, but the resident dwarves honored their contracts above all else, and Varric was good at writing contracts.

Really, Varric had orchestrated the whole Maker-damned expedition, right down to their clothing.  Fenris himself was clad head to toe in black, including a hooded cloak and light leather boots.  It chaffed Fenris to be wearing shoes in anything less than the frigid peak of a Fereldan winter, but everyone, including himself, agreed he should hide his markings.  At least he was permitted to wear his sword prominently.  He _was_ playing bodyguard, after all. 

Hawke and El were subtly armored in a manner that mimicked finery, their blades hidden under elegant cloaks.  They’d managed to plait and pin their hair and apply their makeup in such a way that they hardly looked like themselves at first glance.  No one would expect the former Champion in Tevinter, but it didn’t hurt to make recognition more difficult.

Malcolm looked the least like himself.  Even in Ferelden, well-made mage robes were rarely plain things, so for years Malcolm had refused to wear them.  Ever since Merrill had taught the boy how to weave protective spells into clothing himself, however, he favored drab, sturdy robes.  Such attire made sense for gathering herbs and scuffling with wildlife in the brush and mud, but it would not work for Varric’s schemes.  Instead, Malcolm was dressed like nothing short of Fereldan nobility, if dog lords were mages.  Hawke had done his hair too, slicking the dark locks back from his forehead.  Looking like an elaborate stranger, he sat fiddling with a mabari-shaped pin as the carriage trundled though the streets.

“Father…” Malcolm began, but Fenris cut him short.

“You can’t call me that here.”  Fenris’s tone was colder than he intended, and he tried to ease his voice before continuing.  “If this plan is to work, we have to play our parts.”

“Jack,” Malcolm corrected, using the name Fenris had borrowed from one of the twins’ friends back home.  It would be easier to remember names that were familiar, Varric had insisted.

The dwarf had insisted on a great many things in his last letter.  _Pretend you were a Tevinter mercenary protecting trade caravans and you got caught up in the Blight.  Rall’s father saved your life during a chance encounter with darkspawn, and ever since then you’ve been a loyal friend of the family.  You were eventually hired on to protect the young heir, along with his mother and sister.  Your character half-raised the kid, so if you get as protective as I know you will, it won’t blow your cover.  Some deference… yes ser, no ser… would help, but I know better than to suggest anything more than that._

“Yes,” Fenris answered, “Rall… ser?”

Malcolm’s face paled, but his fingers stilled around the pin and he asked his question.  “Have you ever been to this part of the city before?”

 _Jack_ likely would have, but Malcolm’s question was obviously for Fenris. 

“No.  This area is populated by soporati.  My _employer_ didn’t have any reason to come here.”

Malcolm merely nodded, turning his attention out the window, but El scowled.

“You’re not still seasick, are you?” she asked.

“No, that’s wearing off.  I’m fine,” Malcolm replied, eyes still locked on the passing scenery.

El sighed.  “Well you’re doing a terrible job pulling off the whole upstart lordling thing.  I know Uncle Varric said it was fine for your character to get carried away with his thoughts as you’re wont to do, but for Maker’s sake, be _haughtier_ about it.  If that’s too abstract for you, pretend you’re me,” she explained, flashing a shameless grin.

“I’ll play my part,” Malcolm grumbled.

“It’s okay, you know,” El continued, her voice softer.  “None of us are going to think you _like_ acting that way.”

There were moments when Fenris thought he knew his children better than anyone.  Then there were moments like this, when he realized they knew each other far better than he could ever hope to.  They looked out for each other, they cared for each other.  Malcolm had always kept his sister out of trouble, and El’s voice alone was often enough to brighten her brother’s mood.  She was doing that now, Fenris realized.  Still, he wondered if he should say _something_ to reassure the boy.  As Fenris opened his mouth, however, the carriage came to a halt.  It would have to wait.

“Here we are messers!” the dwarf called as he hopped down and opened the carriage door.

Fenris steeled himself for a possible ambush and stepped out of the carriage.  He was instead greeted by a quiet street, lined with shops and bright in the afternoon sun.  A woman with two small children walked along the other end of the street and an old man entered the shop next door.  Through the windows of the shop before him, he could see books filling the shelves and a dwarf at a desk just inside the door.  Everything _seemed_ safe enough.

“Oh?  We’re stopping here?” Hawke asked.  The words were meaningless, Fenris knew, an empty distraction for anyone who might be spying on them.

“Yes.  My friend says this is the only place you can find it, Mother,” Malcolm insisted as he left the carriage.  His voice was uncharacteristically cocky, and he wore a smirk to match.  Between the change in his demeanor and the flashy clothing, Fenris almost had to remind himself that the young man in front of him was indeed his Malcolm.  If any of them doubted that the boy could play the part of an _upstart lordling_ before, they couldn’t doubt it now.

Watching Hawke and the twins out of the corner of his eye, Fenris stepped cautiously into the shop.  The shopkeeper glanced at him, but then returned her gaze to the ledger in front of her.  When the others filed in behind Fenris, however, the dwarf’s eyes lit up.  “Messeres… I think what you’re looking for is this way,” she said, indicating the back of the store.

Was it a trap?

Fenris reached for his sword and the dwarf clicked her tongue.  “Hard to tell with that hood up, but you must be the elf.  Tethras warned me you’d be touchy, but please try to keep your blade to yourself.  A Messere _Sparkler_ is waiting for you back there.”

Hawke stifled a snicker and Fenris lowered his hand warily.  It could still be a trap.  The rest of his family, however, blithely shuffled to the back of the shop.

They did indeed find Pavus in the back room.  He rushed to shut the door behind them and waved a glowing hand over the wall.  Fenris backed away from the sudden pulse of magic with a scowl.

“You can relax, my broody friend.  I’m just activating the silencing wards I put here,” the magister muttered in explanation.  “There… Now!”  He spun around to look at them with a grin.

“It’s nice to see a familiar face,” Hawke offered with a warm smile, throwing an arm around Dorian’s neck for a quick, tight hug.

“Ah, Hawke, as ravishing and unexpectedly strong as ever,” he chuckled, rolling his shoulder as if she’d squeezed him too tightly.  He turned to El with a flourish and a bow.  “Young lady, you’re even lovelier than I remember.”

“Flatterer,” she snickered.

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” Dorian chuckled with a wink.  His gaze shifted to Malcolm.  “You’re looking dapper… and quite a bit taller than I remember.”

Malcolm merely nodded.

“How is your progress?” Dorian asked, something sharpening in both his eyes and his voice.

Malcolm shifted too, tension replaced by confidence.  “The seventy-fifth pattern gave me trouble for weeks, but I’ve managed to get past it.  Before we left home I had reached the eighty-second.”

“Good lad,” Dorian replied with a warm smile.  “I think the seventy-fifth gives everyone trouble.”

“I didn’t bring the book with me,” Malcolm admitted.  “I assumed it wouldn’t be a good idea to practice fire spells on a ship.”

Dorian laughed a bit at that.  “Nor in a bookstore, or I’d ask you to show me.  Maybe later… once this mess is sorted out.  I’ll send you home with some new material as well.  There’s a new compendium of lightning spells that…”

“Why _are_ we in a bookstore?” Fenris interrupted before the magister could wander too far from the task at hand.

“Ah!  I needed to speak to you in person,” Dorian explained.  “This is a soporati bookstore owned, more or less, by Varric.  No magisters would bother to come here, so it’s a safe place to talk.  As for why I need to talk to you now instead of when we’d previously arranged...  There’s been a slight change…  Well no, perhaps more of a slight addition to the plan.”

“I didn’t agree to changes or additions,” Fenris rumbled.

Dorian rolled his eyes.  “You’ll _like_ this one.  Malcolm may not have to duel Vacurian after all.”

The magister was right.  Fenris did like that.

“It turns out Vacurian lost his last apprentice to a rival and is now desperate for a replacement.  So desperate, in fact, that he’d take on an unknown southern mage… of sufficient skill, of course.  My people have whispered in the right ears that a young _Rall Riverston_ is visiting Qarinus on holiday and is both capable and interested.  It’s an angle that could earn Malcolm a private meeting, where I’ve no doubt Vacurian would fold.  He’s a weakling and a coward, that one.”

“And yet you’ve not killed him yourself…” Fenris complained.

Dorian frowned.  “He may be weak, but he comes from a influential line and his late father was close friends with the Archon.  He has sense enough to cling to those coattails even now, especially after he’s lost face over the apprentice.  I don’t have time to properly explain the political ramifications…  I…”  The magister trailed off, seeming to lose the conviction behind his own arguments.  

“It’s okay, Dorian,” Hawke offered, shooting Fenris a glare.  “You could kill the Archon himself and Fenris would likely think you were too nice about it.”

“I… Well… No amount of jokes or excuses makes any of this right,” Dorian muttered.  “This whole mess has me doubting if the reforms have actually changed anything.  I consider all of you my friends, and if I can’t help my friends…  Well, I should have been able to do more.”

“Stop beating yourself up, Pavus,” Fenris grumbled, noting the way Hawke’s eyebrow arched at his words.  “We both know the appeal is the only reason the girl still lives, and it’s not your fault Varania didn’t have the sense to better protect her daughter.  Though, I’m likely the bigger fool for _bringing_ my children into this viper’s nest.”

El gave his arm a loving pat.  “Oh Father, your children would be here with or without you.  _Someone_ seems to have raised them too well for them to abandon family.”

“Your mother’s doing,” Fenris sighed, rolling his eyes.  Hawke laughed.

Dorian’s face brightened.  “The lot of you… so sweet you make my teeth hurt.”

“We try, Dorian,” Hawke chuckled.  “We try.”

With a smile and a soft sigh, Dorian continued.  “At any rate, the declaration for the duel is not yet filed.  I am hopeful that if you make a big show of traipsing about the town tomorrow morning, Vacurian will invite you by supper.”

“What about my sponsor for the duel?  You said you knew just the man, but is he comfortable with these new uncertainties?” Malcolm asked.

Dorian nodded.  “Magister Euclidius is an accommodating sort, as long as he gets what he wants in the end.  What he wants is to see Vacurian disgraced.  He doesn’t seem to mind if that’s via a public duel or private insults.  His motives for backing you are entirely selfish, and that’s why we can trust him… well, as far as you can trust anyone here.”

“Now,” Dorian continued.  “I’ve arranged a carriage to take you to dinner with Euclidius.  That too, is part of the show.”


	10. Uncomfortable Privileges

* * *

Uncomfortable Privileges

Age 17 (continued) 

* * *

 

Malcolm ate one of the iced shellfish from the dish in the center of the table, careful to look nonchalant about it.  To his left, El daintily buttered a roll.  To his right, his mother sipped her wine and his father stood against the wall, hood down, arms crossed.  Opposite Malcolm, flanked by two guards, Magister Euclidius dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and then stroked his beard.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve never heard of House Riverston.”

“And _I’ve_ never heard of House Euclidius,” Malcolm replied with a flippant smile that would have looked more at home on El’s face than his own.  “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of our family, though.  My forefathers sold most of our lands in exchange for the ability to keep something much more important.”

“Your mages.”

“Indeed.”

“So, even the White Divine can be bribed,” the magister mused.

“Of course.  Can’t everyone?”  Malcolm let his smile ease into something more casual and feigned an intense interest in the platters and dishes in front of him.

Euclidius raised an eyebrow.  “You’ve not managed to get what you want from Vacurian, though, have you?”

“Not yet,” Malcolm replied, dipping another shellfish into some sauce before eating it.  “It’s not unusual for initial offers to fail.  I do have more carrots up my sleeve, and a few sticks.”

“Ah, true enough.”  Euclidius smiled, though his eyes remained cold.  He seemed refined and restrained, but there was a predatory edge to him that Malcolm didn’t like.  The magister was not to be crossed, certainly, but Malcolm also wasn’t quite sure how to appease him.  Clever retorts would only go so far, and too much flattery would clash with the sort of character Malcolm had been told to portray.

“Magister, have you ever had the pleasure of visiting the south in winter?” Hawke asked, slipping into small talk with practiced ease.  Malcolm would have breathed a sigh of relief, if he weren’t still holding up an arrogant façade.

“I have not, Lady Riverston,” Euclidius replied before taking a sip of his wine.  “I imagine the cold weather is anything but pleasurable.”

Hawke smiled sweetly.  “Oh, but Magister, the view of a forest covered in fresh snow is simply lovely.  There is truly nothing like it.”

While the magister focused on his mother, Malcom watched El take another roll.  Her eyes darted briefly to their father, her mouth turned up in a tiny smile, and then the bread silently disappeared into a pocket of her cloak.  Malcolm looked down at the food in front of him and tried to ignore the way his stomach churned.  There was nothing wrong with the food, only the circumstance.  Malcolm had never before sat down to a meal where his father was not permitted to eat.  Even if he weren’t playing the part of a hired bodyguard, the establishment would not have served an elf.  Beside him, El snuck another morsel into her pockets.  It was cold comfort that their father would at least be able to eat once they parted from the magister’s company.

Euclidius snorted.  “ _Mabari_.  Is it true that you Fereldans let those filthy animals into your beds?”

“You’d change your tune in the cold of a winter’s night, Magister,” Hawke insisted cheerfully.

“Here we warm out beds in _other_ ways,” Euclidius replied, his lips pulling into a slimy smile.

Malcolm’s stomach turned again.  “I’d rather permit a dog than force a slave,” he snapped.  “Or, forgive me, are we talking about something besides the chill in the air?”

The magister narrowed his eyes.  “Southerners,” he muttered, stabbing at some meat on this plate.  “It’s for the best, young Master Riverston, that this apprenticeship business is all a sham.  I don’t know that you’d last long here.”

“Perhaps not,” Malcolm replied coolly, but his heart hammered in his chest.  What had he done?  One biting comment would not make Tevinter change its ways.  If he’d gone too far, if this man turned against them, saving their cousin would only become more difficult.

“A comment like that won’t sway Vacurian either, but I do appreciate your gall,” Euclidius explained.

Malcolm smirked.  “Here I was afraid my tongue had gone too far.”

Euclidius busied himself with cutting his meat.  “I don’t care if your tongue lolls from your mouth like one of those dogs you love so much.  I don’t care what your southern sensibilities think of Tevinter.  I don’t care why you want that elf girl.  I only care that you are willing to show Vacurian up.  Use carrots or sticks, but do make sure his face is red by the end of it.”

“And if it still comes to a duel?” Malcolm asked.

“You have my backing,” Euclidius replied.

 

* * *

 

“ _Kaffas_ , brother, I thought you’d made a mess of things for sure,” El muttered once the carriage door closed.

“Me too,” Malcolm replied wearily, leaning his head back against the seat and closing his eyes.

El frowned.  “It’s fine in the end, though.  He agreed to help, didn’t he?”

“So he said…” Fenris grumbled.

“So he said,” Hawke echoed, though with far more confidence.

El understood why Malcolm was despondent, but she didn’t quite comprehend her father’s unfailing pessimism.  He’d been that way all day, but she assumed hunger was only making it worse.  She rummaged around in her cloak, producing a roll from one pocket and a napkin bundled around food from the other.  “Here, Father, I snuck something for you to eat.”

“ _Jack_ ,” he corrected her.  “And you shouldn’t have done that.  What if you’d been caught?  I could have just bought something from a street vendor later.”

Hawke smirked and produced twice as much food from her own pockets.  “We _weren’t_ caught, and you’re hungry _now_.”

“Besides, there was so much food and it was all delicious,” El insisted.

Hawke nodded and placed one of the morsels into Fenris’s hands.  “You’ve spoken fondly in the past of a dessert that sounds a lot like this one.  Even if I’m mistaken, it _was_ delicious.”

El watched as her father unwrapped the little cake and his complaints fell silent.  “He looks rather pleased with our efforts now,” she snickered quietly to Malcolm.

Her brother only nodded.

“Hey, don’t tell me you agree with him.  I know you saw me hide the food, but the magister was none the wiser.  I’m certain of that.”

“No, I’m glad you did it,” Malcolm replied.  “Mother too… Though, I didn’t even see her take anything.”

El shrugged.  “Once a rogue, always a rogue, I guess.  Really, you were probably too busy glaring daggers at the magister to notice.  I will hand it to you, Malcolm.  You’ve somehow managed to make this Rall Riverston believable.”

He sighed.  “I suppose.”

“At least you’re not seasick,” El offered.  When he didn’t reply, she decided it best to leave him alone to brood.  Instead, she turned her attention back to her parents.

“That one has fish,” her father hissed, wrapping one of the little meat tarts back up in the napkin.

Her mother feigned surprise.  “How do you know?  You haven’t even tried it.”

“I can _smell_ it,” he claimed.

“Don’t be a child.  You might like it.”

“I won’t.”

El smiled.  All the magisters in Tevinter wouldn’t be able to break _them_.

 

* * *

 

When they arrived at their hotel, Malcolm craved nothing more than sleep.  He thought of home.  He thought of how it wonderful it felt, after a fight against some aggressive forest creature, to walk into the house, kick off his muddy boots, shrug off his muddy cloak, and fall into his bed.  Dining with the magister had somehow been as exhausting as fighting a bear, and though home was leagues away, he was sure the hotel beds would suffice.

He didn’t expect the garish opulence of the hotel lobby, though he should have.  He didn’t expect that their rooms were actually part of a palatial suite, though he should have.  He didn’t expect his family, tired as they seemed, to inspect every corner of the suite with such lively interest, though he should have.

Malcolm hung back, observing as El opened the first door while Fenris stood beside her, sword drawn.  No demons or magisters’ henchmen leapt out at them.  The room was relatively small, and held only a bed, set of drawers, and a wash basin and pitcher.  The second room was the same, and opening the third door merely revealed a larger room with a much larger bed.

His mother sighed wistfully as she opened the fourth door.  “Ah… dwarven plumbing.  It _has_ been a long day.  I wouldn’t say no to a bath.”

El peered into the room as well, eyeing the gleaming brass faucets and large porcelain tub.  “In a country full of mages, why even bother with the plumbing?  Can’t they all just summon themselves a hot bath?”

“Not every guest is a mage, I’m sure,” Hawke replied.

Fenris snorted.  “Any mage with enough coin to stay here would not be drawing his own bath.  Even with the plumbing, Tevinter mages can’t be bothered to lower themselves to turning faucets.  They would have slaves do it.”

“Varric assured us this hotel was staffed by paid servants,” Hawke reminded Fenris with a scowl.  “If anyone does turn the tap for you, be sure to tip them.”

Fenris simply shrugged and continued his inspection of their quarters. 

“What about you, Malcolm?” El asked.  “Will you use magic to fill the bath as usual, or will you try the plumbing?”

Malcolm hadn’t thought about it, and honestly, lacked the energy _to_ think about it.  “I don’t know, El.  I’m probably just going to sleep straight away.  I’ll wash up in the morning.”  He took his bag from the pile of their luggage and moved towards one of the small rooms.  “Goodni-“

“Not that room,” Fenris said, cutting him off.

“They’re the same,” El pointed out.  “I don’t mind which of the two he takes.”

Fenris shook his head.  “No, you and your mother need to take those two rooms, and Malcolm needs to take the master bedroom.  Varric made a mistake with the room arrangement he chose, but it’s too late to change it.”

“You and mother won’t both fit in those smaller beds,” El replied.

“What makes you think the bodyguard would share a bed with the lady of the house?” Fenris muttered.  “I’ll be sleeping out here on the couch.”

“But…” Malcolm’s stomach twisted again, just like at dinner.  He swallowed.  “Surely we don’t need to keep up the ruse while we _sleep_?”

His father leveled him with a glare.  “The servants will be in and out as they please.  What will they think if they find us arranged like we would be at home?”

“We can lock the door,” Malcolm replied.

“They have keys.”

“We can tell them we don’t want to be disturbed.”

Fenris let out a short, bitter laugh.  “As if a magister hoping to spy on the rather obvious newcomers can’t bribe a few servants to _accidentally_ barge in.  No.  While we’re here, while we’re playing this game, it can’t be like at home.”

Malcolm had run out of arguments, but his mother stepped forward.  “No, _Jack_.  You’ll go downstairs and tell the staff that your charges are weary from travel and will not tolerate being disturbed for the rest of the night.  Tell them we’ll send for breakfast in the morning when we are ready.  I’m sure you can manage a properly aggressive tone.  Then, you’ll come back up here and come to bed.”

“And if the servants fail to heed me?” Fenris asked.

“Then what a _scandal_ for the esteemed Lord Riverston,” Hawke muttered.  “His wife is off sleeping with the bodyguard.  I assume that’s sufficiently juicy to distract those who would fish for such gossip anyway.”

A silent look passed between them.  “I won’t be able to convince you otherwise,” Fenris stated coolly.

“No, dear, you won’t.”

With a half-growled sigh, Fenris grabbed his cloak and stalked from the room to carry out Hawke’s plans.  Watching him go, she sat down on the couch and started pulling the pins out of her hair.

“Is it really worth arguing over which person sleeps where?” El asked.

Malcolm looked at her.  “Probably not, but… Well… It’s bad enough he couldn’t eat with us.  I didn’t like seeing him chased out of bed too.”

“It would be his own fault,” El muttered.  “I can’t say I understand that level of paranoia.”

“No,” Hawke explained, “you’ve been blessed not to know such things, and he would have it no other way.  Realize that his concerns are more than valid and please, just be patient.  Being here is hard for him.  I know we’ve told you stories, but they don’t even begin to capture the reality of what he lived.”

“I’m trying,” Malcolm replied.  “You understand him better than we do, though.”

His mother managed a knowing smile.  “I’ve had a lot of practice.  Also, don’t forget, I dealt with my own version of these games in Kirkwall.  I know it’s not easy, keeping up appearances all day.”

Malcolm couldn’t help but feel that last line was meant for him.

“Was Father this on-edge in Kirkwall?” El asked.

“It was different, then.  He _wanted_ to be found because he wanted to kill his pursuers.  Still, living in Kirkwall required the same relentless, heightened awareness.  That sort of thing stays with you.  My fingers _still_ itch for my daggers every time the crowd in the street pressed too close.”  She paused, struggling with a particularly stubborn hair pin.  “You know… living out in the countryside like we do has been better for your father that either of us ever would have guessed.  It’s calming to have space away from other people.  Then, in the market, he knows that the townsfolk aren’t a threat and that some might even _defend_ him if it came down to it.”

El snickered.  “I’m picturing Father, sword in hand, lyrium blazing… and the baker, next to him, ready to fight with a broom.”

“You laugh, but I’ve seen him kill a rat with one smack of that broom,” Malcolm insisted, smiling a real smile for the first time since they’d left the bookshop.

 

* * *

 

Fenris returned to the suite to find Hawke seated on the couch, combing out her hair.  She smiled at the sight of him, but there was something sad about the look in her eyes.  “I thought about sitting by the door, but it doesn’t work quite the same if you’re already outside.”

“After all these years at your side, where would I go?” he replied softly.

“To sleep on this couch, apparently.”

He dropped wearily down beside her.

“Fenris.”

He flinched at his name.  “Don’t…”

“I don’t care who’s listening, love.”

Her attitude was both distressing and heartening.  He had always both feared and loved the way she could sway him, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.  He swallowed his arguments and admonitions and changed the subject.  “The children?”

“Malcolm’s gone to bed, but El is in the tub,” she explained.  “When she’s finished, I think we should make use of it ourselves.” 

Fenris frowned.  “I had hoped to talk to Malcolm.  I was too… short with him, earlier today.”

Hawke took his hand, lacing their fingers.  “I think it’s alright, for tonight.  As usual, El managed to take his mind off… his mind.”  Hawke chuckled softly to herself.  “You know, sometimes I think of how Varric used to joke about broody babies being born in your honor.  When the children were young, I was convinced El was the broody one.  She would pout and _hold grudges_.  Do you remember when she was five years old and didn’t speak to me all afternoon when I denied her a cookie?  _Five years old_.  By comparison, Malcolm was cheerful…  Now it seems the opposite.  El shrugs everything off with a carefree smile and Malcolm is the one lost in dark thoughts.”

Fenris leaned back against the couch.  “Even when he was small, he had his moments.”

“I suppose, but back then he usually came to us with his problems.”

“It’s hard to know that you’re burdening the ones you love with your worries,” Fenris said.  “He’s gotten old enough to realize that now.”

Hawke smiled softly.  “The ones you love care for you anyway.  At least if you share your worries, you carry the burden together instead of separately.”

“I suppose so.”

She drew closer, offering a reassuring kiss before locking him in her determined gaze.  “Fenris…  Just remember that this is temporary.  We’ll do our best to save the girl and then we’ll go _home_.”

“When _you_ say it,” he whispered, “I almost believe it."


	11. Unacceptable Offers

* * *

Unacceptable Offers

Age 17 (continued) 

* * *

 

Malcom watched out the carriage window as they drove through the streets of Qarinus.  That morning they had made a show of visiting noteworthy sites in the city: a grand fountain, a grander library, a lovely statue, and a lovelier garden.  When they had returned to their hotel for a midday meal, an invitation from Vacurian was already waiting for them.  They would dine with him that very evening in his villa, just outside the city.

A cynical thought had come to Malcolm’s mind, and El had voiced the same thing.  _Dorian understood these people all too well_.  Malcolm was beginning to understand, too.

Malcom had considered Dorian’s offer of an apprenticeship more than once before they’d come to Tevinter.  Even with all his parents had told him of the Imperium, some small part of him still hoped it wasn’t _that_ bad, that Dorian’s reforms were gaining real ground.  He’d hoped that whatever awfulness was left would be small compared to the promise of studying under such a great teacher.

Malcolm knew now that he had been wrong.

He’d read the words written of the Imperium, _Tevinter would crumble without slaves._   Now he had seen that reality come alive before his eyes.  He had seen the crowd of chained slaves in the harbor when he first arrived.   Later, he had started to pick up on the sorts of tunics slaves wore, the collars many bore around their necks.  At first he had tried to count them, as if there were some threshold, some number of slaves that was tolerable.  He quickly lost count, and admitted to himself that he’d been foolish.  If he was honest, it had only taken that first glimpse of slaves by the docks to know there was still too much awfulness left in Tevinter for him to stomach. 

Maybe for Dorian, for whom Tevinter was home, each small improvement was a victory.  He didn’t need to make Tevinter good, just _better_.  But Malcolm had been born and raised among the mud and the dogs of Ferelden.  He’d grown up where even the lowliest was a free man, and even the King had once been an orphaned bastard.  He’d been taught to treat a mabari like more of a person than many of the magisters treated their slaves. 

No, even a good teacher was not worth having to go about his day knowing that those chained and huddled people were the only thing holding the country up around him, but it was more than that.

 _You can’t call me that here_.

Fenris’s words had twisted in Malcolm’s chest like a knife made of ice.  They were too cold and raw to only be a reference to the charade of being a lordling and a bodyguard.  No, to live in Tevinter would be to deny every day that his father was an elven ex-slave.  Malcolm could never do that.

He would see Vacurian, and they would buy, steal, or win his cousin’s freedom, and then he would go home.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm resisted the urge to whisper a thank-you to the collared elf who refilled his teacup and kept his attention on Magister Vacurian.  He was a large man, and though he may have once been strong, time had softened his bulk.  His eyes lacked the sort of calculating sharpness Euclidius had shown, but his smile was equally unsettling.

“You have those pesky wild elves down south, don’t you?” Vacurian asked, taking another cookie from the tray held by the slave beside him.

“The Dalish?  Oh yes… they’re… _pesky_.  They have a fascinating approach to magic, though.  It’s not an academic process like here in the Imperium, and it’s not something restricted and feared like in the old southern Circles.  They don’t study magic, they live it.  It is certainly an intriguing perspective.”

Vacurian sneered.  “If by _intriguing_ , you mean primitive.” 

“Proper study of magic is certainly more civilized, of course,” Malcolm agreed with a smirk.  “What better way to learn than from the achievements of our betters?  Take your grandfather, for example.  I’ve only just begun to scratch the surface of his anthology on magical barriers.  The man was a true genius.”

“Young man, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flattering me,” Vacurian replied with a grin.

“It isn’t flattery if it’s _true_ , Magister.”

“Well, if you like my grandfather’s work, you should read my uncle’s treatise on Veil strength fluctuations.”

Malcolm made a show of glancing towards the rest of his family and set down his teacup.  “You know, Magister, I fear all this talk of magic is boring my dear mother and sister.  Might the ladies have a walk about your garden while we continue our discussion?”

“Oh, could we?” El asked, voice sweet as honey.  “I just can’t get enough of the northern flowers, still in bloom this late in the year.”

Vacurian’s face brightened.  “My dear, nothing would make me happier than knowing my gardens brought you joy.”  He snapped his fingers and the nearest empty-handed slave rushed to his side.  “My man here will show you the way.”

El flashed Malcolm a smile as she and their mother followed after the slave.  Fenris, however, remained behind Malcolm’s chair.

“I’m afraid I haven’t read your uncle’s work.  Do you happen to have a copy you can show me?” Malcolm asked.

Vacurian beamed.  “Why, of course!  Why don’t we go to my library and have a look?  There is much we could also discuss about future arrangements for your education, Master Riverston.”  The magister rose from his chair, tailed by his own guard.  They walked down a grand hall lined with paintings of men who vaguely resembled Vacurian and arrived at a set of heavy wooden doors.

Malcolm turned and smiled at Fenris as if asking a friend to do a favor.  “You can wait out here.”

“Your _father_ would want me to stay by your side, _ser_ ,” Fenris grumbled.

Malcolm kept his fake smile in place.  “I’m sure my father would understand that it’s in poor taste to discuss business with swords looming.”  His eyes flashed to the magister’s guard, hoping his father would understand.

“As you wish, ser,” Fenris replied, taking a place beside the door.

Vacurian frowned, but turned to his own guard.  “You can keep him company.”  The man obediently positioned himself on the opposite side of the doorway.  Malcolm silently let out the breath he was holding.  His mother and sister would likely take care of the guard.

Sure enough, after half an hour of smiling and nodding as Vacurian showed him manuscripts written by his deceased family members, Malcolm caught sight of his father standing in the doorway.

“Magister…” Malcolm said, interrupting Vacurian’s long-winded re-telling of his last meeting with the Archon. 

“Yes?”

“I must admit I haven’t yet told you my _real_ reason for coming here today.”

Vacurian’s face twisted in confusion.  “Your… real…”

“I am actually here to claim one of your slaves awaiting trial, an elven girl named Larina,” Malcolm explained.  “I’d like to take her without incident, but if that is not possible, I already have papers drawn up for a public duel.”

“Who put you up to this?” the magister spat, face turning red.  “Was it that damned Pavus?  He pestered me about that wench for weeks.”

Malcolm forced a bitter laugh.  “You don’t see, do you?  _I’m_ the one who put _him_ up to that.  I have a personal interest in the elf girl, and his efforts to take her off your hands were simply an attempt to do me a favor.  Unfortunately, you’ve proven a stubborn fool and I had to come here in person.  I will leave with her, one way or another.”

“Who are you to pull this… this act?  To make these demands?”

“I may have lied about my intentions, but I didn’t lie about my _abilities_.”  A powerful blast of fire flew from Malcolm’s hand, winding around Vacurian like a molten snake.  The magister’s eyes went wide, and though Malcolm was sure not a hair on his head was singed, the heat was enough that he broke into a sweat.  With a twitch of Malcolm’s fingers, the fire vanished.

“Guards!  Guards!” Vacurian shouted.

Instead of a guard, El sauntered into the room, twirling her dagger in her fingers.  “They’re not coming, _Magister_.”

Hawke followed behind her.  “I’m afraid they’re all sleeping soundly.  We didn’t come here to hurt innocent slaves, after all.  A magister though…  Well, let’s just say my blades are eager.”

Vacurian spluttered, struggling to form actual words.  “You can’t have her.  I… I can’t let such a thing be seen.  Her actions were _insolent_.  To simply let them go would make me appear so weak, I’d be as good as dead anyway.”

Malcolm drew a coin purse from his pocket.  “Though it pains me to trade in _people_ , I’ll pay you fairly for the girl.  Her mother will drop the appeal, and I will rescind my declaration of a duel.  Then, I will take her back south.  You will never see her or hear from her again.  Tell your friends you killed her, if that suits you.”

The magister still hesitated.

“We’ve dipped this in honey and laid it on a silver platter, you fool,” Fenris muttered.  “We only want the girl.”

Vacurian eyed Fenris’s sword and wrung his hands.  “Fine.  She’s yours.”

El slipped behind the magister and gave him a nudge.  “Lead the way.”

They marched back down the hall of portraits and then twisted through the back corridors of the villa.  Most of the household slaves were busy in the kitchen and dining room, preparing for a meal that would not be eaten.  The handful of slaves they did encounter scurried away at the mere sight of them.  After passing rooms of bunks that Malcolm realized must have been the slaves’ quarters, they finally arrived at a hallway that ended in three doors.  Two were ajar, revealing tiny rooms with only a bucket in the corner.

“Cells,” Fenris spat, “for punishing slaves.”

“Or keeping them from running away,” Vacurian muttered.

“If you’ve hurt her…” Hawke threatened.

The magister narrowed his eyes at her.  “The Archon himself supports the new appeal process, and I don’t dare risk becoming an example.  You will find your prize in perfect health, I assure you.”  He pulled a chain with three keys from around his neck and held it out.

El reached for the chain, but Malcolm stopped her. 

“There could be traps and spells,” he whispered to her.  Instead, Malcolm glared at the magister.  “ _You_ open it.”

Muttering under his breath about dog excrement and Fereldans, Vacurian did as he was told.  The door swung aside, and large, shining eyes blinked at them from the dark of the cell.  Malcolm summoned a small flare of veilfire to better illuminate the prisoner.  He could see clearly now, a young elven woman with blue-green eyes and red hair.  Malcolm studied her face, not actually sure what he was looking for.  There was something about the angle of her nose that mirrored his father, but otherwise she looked like a stranger.  He studied her then as a healer.  She seemed well-nourished, her eyes were bright, aware, but she was trembling, and she hadn’t yet moved an inch from where she sat on the floor.

“We’re here to free you, dear,” Hawke said gently.  “We know your mother, and we know about you.  Larina, you can come out.”

The girl shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.  “No, I won’t leave him.”

 _Him_?

Malcolm stepped closer and strengthened his veilflame.  He could now see that someone was lying on the floor beside her, his head in her lap.  Malcolm’s stomach twisted.  Whoever _he_ was, he wasn’t well.  Malcolm crept into the cell.  “It’s okay,” he whispered when Larina flinched away from him, “I’m a healer.”

Her eyes brightened.  “Please…  Please help him.  He…”

He was an elf, a young man, pale and thin.  Malcolm set a hand on the elf’s forehead and reached out with his magic, trying to find what was wrong.  The elf was weak, feverish, and near death.  He was wounded somewhere, terribly.  Malcolm lifted the threadbare blanket that had been pulled over his shoulders.  The young man had been whipped, with new wounds and old obvious on his body.  Some of the new wounds bled, and some of the old were infected.  Malcolm’s first instinct was to pour everything into healing him, but he held himself back.  The infected wounds would need to be cleaned before they could be closed.  It would be better to heal him slowly, and to do that somewhere, anywhere but the dank cell.

Malcolm healed the elf just enough to ensure he would live through a carriage ride.

“We have to get him out of here,” Malcolm said, scooping up the too-light body.  Larina nodded and followed him out of the cell.  Wordlessly, Fenris sheathed his sword and took the elf from Malcolm’s arms.  His whole family could see the state the young man was in, and all eyes turned to the magister.

Vacurian cleared his throat.  “Unlike the girl, he’s my slave to do with as I please.”

For the first time in nearly a decade, magic flew almost unbidden from Malcolm’s fingers, a rush of ice that threw Vacurian against the wall, burying the magister up to his neck.  The ice may not have even stopped there, but El rushed to Malcolm’s side.  He felt her, the lightest brush of her fingertips against his hand, shaking him from the swirling rage.  She didn’t need to speak, he could already hear what she would say.  _He’s not worth it_.  If she had pressed or scolded he would have ended the magister half to spite her, but she was passive, there only to remind him of himself.  Maker, she knew him too well.

“The only reason I’m not going to kill you is because I can’t stomach the sight of you for another moment,” Malcolm spat.  He turned to leave, and his family followed, herding Larina along with them.

As they turned the corner, Malcolm heard Vacurian shout.  “How dare you take my driver!  You only paid for the girl!”

It took everything Malcolm had not to storm back down the hall and fill the monster’s lungs with ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hawke family has the girl, but there’s a bit more to wrap up with another chapter or two, including some more familiar faces. After that, I have so many plot bunnies – short ones, long ones, cute ones, sad ones. As long as the bunnies keep multiplying, I intend to keep writing. Please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading!


	12. Unfamiliar Recognition

* * *

Unfamiliar Recognition

Age 17 (continued)

* * *

 

Fenris felt entirely out of place. 

Having rescued Varania’s daughter from Magister Vacurian, he and his family retreated to the safety of a new dwarven merchant vessel docked in the harbor, as planned.  What they hadn’t planned for was the boy.  The moment Fenris had laid him down on a bed in one of the ship’s cabins, Malcolm had rolled up his sleeves and set to work.  Everything else seemed to fall into place around him.  Hawke assisted him as needed, handing him clean cloths, taking away the soiled ones, and following his muttered instructions for elfroot salves.  El sat with the girl, asking her about herself, about her life, about the boy, about anything to keep her from staring too long at her lover’s pale face and the bloody cloth in Malcolm’s hands.  Fenris merely stood, back in a corner of the room, trying not to look at the girl who so closely resembled Varania.

Eventually, Fenris settled on watching Malcolm work.  The level of focus his son maintained as he cleaned the elf’s wounds was remarkable, and the application of magic to close each wound was surprisingly precise.  Fenris felt the magical pulses of the healing spells in his markings, but it didn’t set him on edge the way that other types of magic did.  Indeed, true healing magic could actually feel soothing, and Malcolm’s magic was especially so.  As the minutes dragged on, however, something changed.  The waves of healing weren’t quite so precise, or as strong, and Malcolm looked weary.

Fenris stepped forward and put a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder.

“Malcolm.”

No reply.

He squeezed Malcolm’s shoulder and his son turned to look at him, startled.

“That’s enough,” Fenris told him.

“But I’m not finished.  I…”

“Will the boy live while you rest for a few hours?”

Malcolm frowned.  “Yes… He’s out of danger now, but not all of his wounds…”  Malcolm’s eyes flashed to the pack Fenris knew held their supply of lyrium potions. 

“We need to think of keeping our strength up in case Vacurian sends anyone after us,” Fenris reminded him.  “Your mother and I can put salve and bandages on them for now.  We’re capable enough.”

Malcolm glanced back at the injured elf.  “I…”  He cut himself short and sighed.  “You’re right.”

Hawke was at his side, holding the bandages and a fresh batch of salve.  “Malcolm, you’ve done well.  Go rest.  If the boy wakes we’ll offer him some broth.  That’s alright for him, isn’t it?”

Malcolm nodded, resigned.  “Yes, but be slow about it… and give him some of the blood lotus extract if he’s still in pain.” 

He turned to leave, and a soft, broken voice called after him.  “Thank… you…”  Larina stood, bowing her head, and repeated herself, more firmly.  “Thank you, Healer.”

In the doorway, Malcolm managed a weak smile.  “I’m just sorry I can’t do more right now.”

Fenris watched him go and turned back to see El reassuring the girl.

“No, you haven’t done anything wrong.  My brother just doesn’t like to leave things unfinished.  He’ll be friendlier once he can complete the healing, I promise.”  El took the girl’s hand and sat her back down.  “Now… where were we… oh!  The Viscount of Kirkwall is my Uncle Varric.  Well, he’s not my uncle by blood, of course, he’s a dwarf, but he’s close with my parents so we’ve always called him that.  He’s also a writer and he tells the _best_ stories…”

Fenris began to tune them out again, focusing on applying elfroot salve to the wounds still left unhealed.  There weren’t many, and those that lingered were shallow and clean.  Malcolm _had_ done well.  Once the wounds were bandaged, Hawke stretched and sighed.

“I’m going to go down to the galley and see about getting us something to eat.  Can you watch the boy?” she asked.

Fenris nodded.

“I’ll go too,” El piped up, moving to her mother’s side.  “You’ll need someone to help you carry things.”

Fenris noticed the elf girl sitting down beside the bed rather than following El, and he frowned.  “Maybe I should go instead…”

“Nonsense,” Hawke insisted with a bright smile.  “We have it taken care of, and we’ll be right back.  Just watch over them.”  Before Fenris could object, she scurried out the door with El at her heels.

He knew what they were doing.  They wanted to leave him alone with the elf girl, so the two of them might talk.  Fenris didn’t want to talk, especially not to the girl who reminded him too much of Varania.  It should be enough that she was saved from the magister and his conscience could be clear.  He didn’t need or want more than that.  Fenris slid down onto the bench in the far corner.  The room was small, but he put as much distance between himself and the girl as possible.

The girl didn’t seem to want to talk either.  She held her lover’s hand and brushed his dark hair from his face.  She may have whispered something to the boy, near-silent words of encouragement, but Fenris couldn’t be sure.  He began to wonder if she even noticed he was still there.

“How…” She broke the silence.  “How do they treat you… your humans?”  Her voice was wary, but light and musical and so _unlike_ Varania’s that Fenris snapped his head around to stare at her.  “I owe them my life, and Naven’s life… but I’m still afraid.  I hope… They’re good, right?  Your humans?  They…”

“Stop calling them _my humans_ ,” Fenris grumbled.

She gaped at him, wide eyes with too much blue to be Varania’s. 

“They aren’t my humans, they’re my _family_ ,” Fenris clarified.  Her bewildered gaze didn’t fade, so Fenris continued.  “My wife and our children.”

“Your children?  Truly?  How…?”

“Yes.”  Fenris hoped he didn’t have to explain further.  She was _more_ than old enough to know how children were made.  Surely she realized it was no different between an elf and a human.

“Such a thing is permitted in the south?”

_That_ , at least, was a more appropriate source of confusion.  “Permitted?  Yes.”

“Accepted?”

“Not always, but I’ve found carrying a large sword helps ensure those who object do it quietly.”  He’d halfway meant it as a joke.  El would have snickered, and Malcolm would have rolled his eyes despite wearing a smile.  The girl merely nodded, shying away from his gaze.

Fenris felt a pang of concern for her.  Moving south would be a big change.  Change was difficult, Fenris knew that, and she was so young… as young as El and Malcolm…  “Life won’t be easy,” he said suddenly, almost surprised to hear his own voice.  “It’s never easy.  There will always be burdens, always be enemies, even outside the Imperium.  But…”  He gestured to her lover.  “If he is a good man, and you have each other, you will manage.  It will be possible… to be happy.”

The girl smiled faintly, reaching again to smooth down the sleeping elf’s hair.  “I hope so.”  After a moment, she spoke again, almost as an afterthought.  “Are you happy, Uncle?”

Fenris froze.  She _knew_. 

“I’m not your…” Fenris trailed off.  What good would denying it do?  With the cloak off, his appearance was recognizable, certainly… white hair, lyrium brands… Varania must have told her enough.  Still, how much did she know?

“It’s okay,” the girl muttered, busying her hands by tugging the blankets around the boy.  “I can understand if you don’t want to think about my mother.  I don’t really want to think about her right now either… I just can’t avoid it.  All while Vacurian held me, I hoped I would be able to see her again, but now that I’m free, I’m not sure.”  The girl’s voice grew strained.  “I suppose I’m being presumptuous.  She might not even _want_ to see me.”

Fenris frowned.  “She is your _mother_.  Why wouldn’t she want to see you?”  He knew, if he had the chance to be reunited with his children after such an ordeal, nothing would keep him from them.  Nothing.

“She’s angry that I want to be with Naven,” the girl explained.

“That’s all?”

She turned to glare at him.  “ _That’s all_?  We’ve fought and fought about it.  Naven is the man I love, a kind, wonderful man and all my mother sees is a slave.  How can you say…”

Fenris cleared his throat.  “That is _not_ what I meant.”

“Oh.”

“I have no reason to doubt your relationship,” Fenris explained.  “Both of you risked a magister’s wrath to be together, and I assume that was not done casually.  I simply meant that it does not sound like something worth abandoning your child over.  Not even for her.”

The girl, _Larina_ , Fenris reminded himself, looked away and toyed with the edge of the blanket.  “We intend to marry.  How can you be so sure my mother would overlook _that_?”

“She loves you enough that she came to _me_ for help,” Fenris said.  “I can’t imagine she would do such a thing if she planned to disown you.  It would be easier to just leave you to Vacurian, and certainly safer for her.”

“What do you mean, _safer_?”

Fenris frowned.  “If your mother didn’t tell you what passed between us, I can’t be the one to explain it.”

Larina considered him for a moment before lowering her eyes again.  “She told me she wronged you, terribly.  She wouldn’t say more than that.”

“Then she left out the part where I very nearly killed her for her betrayal,” Fenris muttered.

She lifted her gaze, wide eyes meeting his.  “She never said…  If what she did was that awful, why would you help her?  Why would you come?”

“I did not come to help _her_.  I came to help _you_.”  Fenris sighed.  “It also didn’t hurt that my children were eager to meet their cousin.”

“Ah…  I see…”  Larina fiddled with the blanket once more, but managed to look him in the eye.  “Thank you.”

Fenris replied with a nod. 

They slipped back into silence then.  Fenris failed to keep his mind from turning to Varania, but he found the anger that rose up at the thought of her wasn’t as sharp or hot as it had been in the past.  It should not have surprised him.  He had come to _Tevinter_ to rescue _her_ daughter.  On top of that, he couldn’t help but feel protective of the girl.  Those paternal instincts both vexed and amused him, an irony that would surely put a knowing smile on Hawke’s face.  Thinking of Hawke made him think of the children, and of home… Those three things _were_ happiness in his mind, and they pressed against the anger, blunting it, smothering it.  It wasn’t that his anger towards Varania was less than in the past, but that the other things were _more_.  He sighed and tipped his head back against the wall.  It was for the best.  He was probably too old to be putting so much energy into hating someone so pitiful anyway.

He might have dozed off, sitting on that bench, but Larina’s voice caught his attention.  She was singing, softly and beautifully.  The song was in Tevene, the soothing lyrics something he couldn’t recall ever hearing before, but the melody tugged at the deepest corners of Fenris’s mind.  Suddenly, it wasn’t Larina’s voice he was hearing, but another… just as lovely, but richer… _his mother’s voice_.

The memory came to him as gently as the song.  He was quite young, sick in bed, and huddled under a quilt.  His mother gazed down at him, her face a mixture of comfort and concern.  Her hand felt cool against his forehead.  _I’ll sing you a song, dear one, to help you sleep_.

As her voice drifted away and Fenris opened his eyes, he half expected the memory to fade.  It did not.


	13. Unpayable Debts

* * *

Unpayable Debts

Age 17 (continued)

* * *

 

Malcolm thought Naven seemed strangely optimistic for a slave.  Though, if Malcolm considered it, he did have much to be optimistic about.  He was free, his lover was at his side, and he was… mending.  After a few hours of sleep, Malcolm had been able to close all the elf’s wounds, but there was no spell that would magic-away starvation.  Naven would need food and rest.  None of what he’d endured, however, seemed to dampen his smile.  It was a bright, infectious thing, lighting up the faces of those around him as easily as his own eyes.  It seemed the only time he didn’t smile was while playing cards.  There, his face put even El to shame.

“Fold,” Malcolm sighed, laying his middling hand down on the bed.  El and Larina had already gone out, so Naven revealed his cards with a mischievous grin.  His hand was _much_ worse than Malcolm’s.

“Ugh,” El groaned.  “You’re too good at this.”

Naven chuckled as he added more dried beans to his already large pile.  “My mum’s the best card player in the whole town.  She’d be disappointed in me if I wasn’t _at least_ this good.”

“Well I don’t know about all of you, but those beans are starting to look edible.  I think it’s time to see what they have for lunch down in the galley,” El said.  She stood to leave, and Larina moved to follow her, offering to help.

As the door closed behind them, Naven leaned back against his pillows with a weary smile.  “Thank you, Malcolm, for not asking too many questions in front of Larina.”

“Questions?”

“I can tell,” Naven said.  “You’re the sort that asks questions, thinks on things.  You can ask now.  I really don’t mind answering.”

He was right, Malcolm had so many questions.  Still, if the elf was willing to provide Malcolm with answers, what couldn’t he say in front of his lover?  “Why don’t you want me to ask in front of her?” 

Naven shrugged.  “It’s not that I’m keeping secrets.  She already knows everything there is to know about me anyway.  I just don’t want to remind her of the bad things.  I don’t like her dwelling on things and worrying after me.”

“I can understand that…” Malcolm hesitated.  His first thought wasn’t actually a question.  “You don’t act much the other slaves I’ve seen.”

“Like the ones afraid of everything?” Naven chuckled.  “Well, I’m an _escaped_ slave now, but I know what you mean.  Even when I was saying _yes, Master_ all the time, I was cheekier than a lot of them.  I’ve only been a slave for five years now, after all.  Most of the quiet ones have never been free before.”

Five years.  The elf seemed about his age, and Malcolm couldn’t help but think back to his own life five years earlier.  “How old were you when you were captured?”

“Captured?” Naven snorted.  “Nah, I sold myself.”

“You…”  Malcolm couldn’t imagine such a thing.

“You can wipe that miserable look off your face, Healer.  I did what I had to do, and I don’t regret it,” Naven explained.  “In my fourteenth winter, my little brother fell deathly ill.  The healing he needed was expensive, and my family didn’t have the coin.  We were free, yes, but getting paid to tend livestock didn’t add up to much.”

Malcolm thought of El.  Would he go that far to keep her safe?  He knew that he would, but he also thought about everyone else in his life.  Surely there would be some other way.  “No one could help you?  Family?  Friends?”

Naven sighed, a rare darkness clouding his features.  “It was a bad year… poor harvest, poor growth in the livestock.  No one had anything to give.  My brother wasn’t the only one sick, and I wasn’t the only one who sold himself.”

“What about the people you worked for?”

“The boss is a rough man, but he’s fair.  I know he would’ve helped if he could… just… he’s no magister.  He can’t go handing out coin every time a farmhand’s kid gets sick.  He has to feed his family too, and that year was just as lean for him.  I don’t blame him for where I ended up, I blame that cheating slaver.  He swore up and down that the money he gave my family was for only one year of labor.  That’s the only reason my parents let me do it.  By the time I ended up at auction and realized the truth, it was too late.”

“Why not just run away?”

Naven shook his head.  “I had at least agreed to the year, and after that, I worried they’d just catch me and sell me to someone _really_ awful.  I didn’t mind being a driver, and Master Vacurian wasn’t so bad…”

“He whipped you nearly to death,” Malcolm growled.  “That’s pretty bad.”

Naven shrugged.  “Yeah, but I’ve heard of worse.  At least he didn’t bleed slaves to feed demons or keep elves in his bed.”

Malcolm’s stomach churned again, despite the stillness of the docked ship.

“Hey, my brother is alive and well.  That’s all that matters in the end,” the elf offered.

“That…”  Malcolm managed a smile.  Naven was right, that _was_ what mattered.  “That’s great.  Were you able to see him?”

“No,” Naven replied, “but Larina wrote a letter to my old boss, asking how my family was doing.  He wrote right back, told her they were doing well.  Like I said, the boss is a good man.  He wrote out messages from my mum and pa, and let my brother send along a drawing.  He’s a great artist, my brother.  He could draw you a masterpiece with a stick in the dirt.”

“I missed my brother, so I asked Master Vacurian if I could go see him,” Naven sighed.  “I got a few lashes for that.  He had me healed, but it still hurt.  I didn’t ask again, but Larina kept sending letters, and my brother kept drawing pictures for me.  I can’t even read the letters yet, but Larina has been trying to teach me.  I want to save enough money for my brother to come visit me now that I’m free.”

Malcolm smiled softly.  “Even after everything, you seem to keep a bright outlook.  It’s admirable.  I don’t know if I could do it.”

“I’m happier going through life hoping people are good instead of assuming people are bad,” Naven said with a grin.  “My pa thinks that’s foolish of me, and my mum prays for the Maker to save me from myself.  Larina thinks I’m brave, though.  Her mum taught her to be afraid of everyone and think the worst of them.  I think that’s awful.  It hurts her, deep down… goes against her kind nature.”  His smile faded and he fidgeted for a moment, rolling some of the dried beans in his hands.  “I don’t care where we go or what we do.  I just want to make Larina feel safe enough that she can be kind.”

The elf wanted to protect her, Malcolm could understand that.  He wanted to protect his family, his friends.  Still, the longing in Naven’s voice was something Malcolm had a hard time relating to, something different, something more.  He knew he’d yet to encounter anyone who made him feel like _that_.  “How did you two meet?” Malcolm wondered.

Naven sighed softly, his lips pulling into a gentle smile as he reminisced.  “Larina worked with her mum in a tailor shop that sells fancy mage robes.  That shop happens to be right beside Mast… _Vacurian’s_ favorite restaurant.  So, at least once a week, I’d harness the horses and haul him over there.  I’d have to wait for him, of course, so I had plenty of time to see Larina… greeting customers, smiling at people, and generally just looking _lovely_.  Looking turned to talking, talking turned to kissing, and that was how Vacurian found us in the alley between the shop and the restaurant.”  Naven’s voice sharpened.  “The bastard’s first reaction was to try to hit her with lightning.  Luckily, Larina’s mum magicked all her clothes with protective spells.  Instead of shocking her, it just bounced back and shocked _him_.  He’s lucky he’s not a very strong mage or he might have hurt himself.  Instead, he was just very embarrassed in front of his very important friends.  He called the guards and… well… we ended up like you found us.”

“That’s…”

Malcolm was interrupted by a soft knock on the door before it nudged open and El stuck her head in.  She was beaming.  “Malcolm, Dorian’s here.”

“What?  Really?”

El nodded, bringing in a tray with soup for Naven and tossing Malcolm an apple.  “He more or less escorted Varania here, but she’s with Larina now.  He brought you an armful of books, which I put in your room, and he suggests you join him.  He’s down in the hold causing a bit of a ruckus.”

“Sorry,” Malcolm said, turning to Naven.  “I’d like to go see him.  Unless… do you want someone here while Varania…”

Naven smiled and shook his head.  “It’s fine.  Larina and I talked about this.  She needs to sort things out with her mum, and if it goes well, then I’d like to meet her, good and proper.  Until then I’ll work on this soup, _slowly_.  I know.  You don’t need to give me that look, Healer.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes, unable to help his smile, and turned for the door.

“Larina and her mother went straight into an empty cabin to talk,” El explained as Malcolm ducked out into the hall and followed after her.  “Really, I only caught a glimpse of her, but Father wasn’t kidding.  She and Larina look a lot alike.”

“Did Father… ah… encounter Varania as well?” Malcolm asked, taking a bite of the apple.

“No.  He’s with mother, out on the deck.  He was muttering to her about not wanting to see _that woman_ , but refusing to run off and hide either.”

Malcolm sighed.

“Don’t look at me,” El complained.  “When Father’s got a sword in his hand, I understand him, but when he’s like that, it’s your area of broody expertise.  I don’t blame him though.  Knowing what she did, part of me feels just giving her the time of day would be a betrayal.”

They soon found Dorian in the cargo hold, where the crew had pushed the crates around to make an open area.

A well-dressed dwarf grumbled at him.  “If you nug-brained mages set this ship on fire…”

“I assure you, Captain, we’ll put up more than enough glyphs and barriers to prevent that.  In fact, the protection might even last a while after you set sail.  You know, some shipmasters pay good money for such a thing, and here I’m doing it for free.”

“Yeah, my brother is one of them, but he’s also a lunatic who transports live dragonlings.”

“Well, given that you can refer to your brother in the present tense, you must know how effective such spells can be,” Dorian quipped.

The captain stroked his beard, looking around the hold.  “We sail at first light tomorrow, and we’re expecting to load more cargo overnight.  This will all need to be put back to rights by then, so you sparkly bastards can’t take too long.”

“I will relinquish the space to your crew by supper,” Dorian assured him.  “I swear to you, I have promised my stomach I won’t be anywhere near this ship once it hits the open sea.”

“Bah!  Have at it, then.” the Captain muttered, stomping past Malcolm and El to head back above deck.

Dorian spotted them and his face broke into a devilish grin.  “There you are.  Now, help me set some glyphs so you can show me those fire patterns.”

 

* * *

 

Malcolm was grinning as he stepped back out on the deck.  Dorian had been impressed with his progress and had shown him both new spells and tweaks he could make to improve old ones.  In addition to the lessons, the magister’s witty humor was more than welcome.  Malcolm had reluctantly left Dorian and El engrossed in an amusing discussion while he hurried up to his room to fetch one of the spellbooks Dorian had given him.

He walked among the cabins, nearing his own when a door in front of him opened and someone stepped out.  For a moment, Malcolm thought it was Larina, but no, the elven woman was older.  Then her eyes fell on him… green, like his father’s, like his own.  The more Malcolm studied her, the more he saw a resemblance to his father beyond her eyes.  It was true, her hair was red and her skin was lighter than Fenris’s, even in winter, but her features…

“You’re _his_ son, aren’t you?  You’re the healer?”

 _Varania_.

“I thought I might speak with you…” she began.

Malcolm tensed, mind swirling with the tale of her treachery, ears ringing with the edge of loathing that both his parents used when speaking her name.  His father could have been killed or worse by her actions...  “I don't see what business you could have with me.  Unless you are injured, I’ll be on my way,” Malcolm stated, even more coldly than he intended.

“I'm…  I don't need healing.”  She seemed thrown.  “I just thought you might be the most open...”

“I'm a healer, not Andraste,” Malcolm scoffed, starting to turn away, hoping to be done with the woman.  He already felt like he had spoken to her too much.

“Please,” she muttered.  “I understand.  You are your father’s son, and I am a coward and a traitor.  I deserve the way you look at me, and I owe your family better.  Please just hear me for a moment.” 

Was it a betrayal if Malcolm listened? 

Against his better judgement, Malcolm hesitated, and she took the opportunity to speak, quickly at first, as if she was afraid he would change his mind. 

“I… There is no excuse for what I did, but I want you to understand where I came from, where your father came from.  My mother… Slavery was all she knew.  She was born a slave, but my father was not.  He was taken by slavers when he was old enough to remember being free.  He tried to teach your father and me what that meant.  The lesson never took for me, but it was all your father thought about.  When my father died, yours did _everything_ he could to set our family free.  He couldn’t have known how hard it would be for mother and me once he was taken away.  My father didn’t do enough to explain that a life of freedom would still be difficult, just in different ways, ways my mother couldn’t handle, ways I struggled with.  I never appreciated what your father did for me until the moment Larina was born.  For the first time I felt the hope of what freedom could mean.  That hope was nearly dashed, but your family saved mine once again.

“My father was born free, but died a slave.  Your father was born a slave but found freedom.  Their lives scarred them both.  Maybe you, finally, can walk a path that doesn’t leave you with any such scars to bear.  I hope you and your sister can live your whole lives having only known freedom.  My father would have liked that…”  She grew quiet, studying his face, and for a moment Malcolm thought she was finished. 

“Does your father…  Does he still like apples?”

Was it a betrayal if Malcolm answered?

She didn’t wait for his reply.  “I like apples too.  They remind me of my father.  It was his job to tend the horses, and sometimes he managed to sneak a few apples away for us.  That…  That’s the sort of thing I tried to write down for your father, if he ever wants to read this.”  She took out a thick envelope and held it out to Malcolm, her hands trembling ever so slightly.

Was it a betrayal if Malcolm took it?

“He… he hasn’t killed me yet, and I don’t think he’d accept my coin, but maybe I can pay him some small fragment of the debt I owe with memories.”

Malcolm took the envelope.  “He may very well throw this into the fire.”

“I know.”

“This… None of this means that he can ever trust you, that I can ever trust you,” Malcolm muttered.

“I know.”  Varania bowed deeply.  “Thank you, for freeing my daughter, for healing her lover, and for listening.”  With that, she turned, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hawke family finally gets to leave Tevinter, but they have a stop to make before they return home. With the holidays, that part may take me a while to write, but it should be fun. After that, I intend to go back in time again and continue with a few short windows into the Hawke family before I start another major arc like this one. As always, thank you for reading.


	14. Unbroken Connections

* * *

Unbroken Connections

Age 17 (continued)

* * *

 

Walking through the halls of the Viscount’s Keep, Fenris paid only cursory attention as Varric prattled to Larina and Naven about their new accommodations and employment.  After an almost pleasant voyage from Qarinus to Kirkwall, the girl seemed less withdrawn, and the boy less gaunt, and Fenris really did wish them the best, but he also needed a drink if he was to listen to Varric’s chatter for much longer.

Hawke’s fingers found his.  “I forget how much he can talk when he’s not fishing for information,” she sighed.  “At least they've never heard any of his stories before.”  She lowered her voice to a whisper and cracked a smile, “Though… Is it really okay to leave them here, with him?”

Fenris studied the pair.  They were clearly overwhelmed, but smiling, his niece’s hand tight in her lover’s.  Fenris looked at Hawke out of the corner of his eye.  “The story of their romance will be fodder for his next novel.  Do not doubt me.”

Hawke let out a quiet half-chuckle.  “Of course, but you know that’s not all I mean, Fenris.  You’ll miss them.  Won’t you?”

“This was the plan,” he answered, “and it is a sound plan.”

When they first orchestrated their reckless endeavor, Fenris had been absolutely certain that he would want nothing to do with Varania’s daughter once it was over.  Now that he’d met the girl, however, his mind was split.  On the one hand, she still looked so familiar, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that constant reminder in his own home.  On the other hand, the girl was open and kind.  After that first difficult conversation, he’d only warmed up to her more, and he felt _protective_ of her.  Maybe someday, if they wished it, Larina and Naven could come to Ferelden…

“Naven was a herder,” Hawke mused.  “He may end up wanting to go back to a life in the countryside, and even a small town could use a tailor.”

Fenris looked at her and shook his head.  “The boy also wants to see his family again, and Varric’s contacts are better for that.  Let them start here.”  He paused before adding, “Our door is open should their circumstances change.”

Hawke smiled brightly, with no hint of jest or deflection.  It was the sort of smile that still lightened his heart, even after so many years.  “That’s all I needed to know, love,” she replied.

 

* * *

 

Fenris took the wineglass Varric offered him and leaned back in his chair.  “Who is this guest we are waiting for, Dwarf?  You know how I feel about surprises.”

Passing beside him, El smirked.  “Oh Father, when has Uncle Varric ever disappointed?”

Fenris snorted.  “It always works out in his stories, and he’s always spoiled you and your brother, but I have far more experience with his _surprises_ than you do.”

“Don’t worry, Elf, you’ll like this one,” Varric assured him with a grin as he settled in with his own glass.  “Besides, nothing’s ever gone _too_ badly.”

“Hmm… I seem to recall one surprise that involved shipwreck, plague, and a rage demon,” Fenris recounted between sips of wine.

Varric grinned all the wider.  “Come on, you know _that_ trip ended up being the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Fenris hummed his concession into his wineglass and turned his gaze to where Hawke stood at the window, pointing out moonlit Hightown landmarks to El and Malcolm.

“Now the time with the spiders… Well, I’ll take the blame for that one,” Varric chuckled.

“ _Which_ time with the spiders?”

“The _exploding_ spiders,” Varric clarified.

Fenris was about to explain that when you fought spiders with a sword, they _all_ exploded, but a sharp knock at the door cut him off.  After Varric shouted his approval, an attendant opened the door to usher someone inside.  The person wore a long coat and a _ridiculous_ feathered hat…

“Here you are, Captain,” the attendant declared, closing the door as he slipped out.

Captain…

As she removed her hat and coat, she winked at Fenris.

Isabela.

Divested of the outlandish headpiece, she looked much the same as when he’d last seen her.  Older, perhaps… wearing proper pants for once… but much the same.  She let out a low whistle as she approached their table.  “My, don’t you look good.”

Varric laughed.  “Remember, he’s a married man, Rivaini.”

Isabela smirked.  “Oh, I know.  Hawke would have my left tit if I tried.  I meant these two darling kittens.”

“If you start propositioning my children I’ll have both your tits,” Hawke warned, but she was smiling and already meeting Isabela for a crushing hug.

“You can keep your daggers sheathed, Hawke.  I only mean to say that you and your elf make beautiful babies.”  Isabela threw one arm around El and kissed her on the cheek, and then she turned to Malcolm.  After making a show of looking him up and down, she smirked and patted him on the head like a child.  “Grow a beard and then we’ll talk,” she offered in a feigned whisper.

The boy flushed scarlet and scowled, but El nudged him towards the table where their mother was already taking a seat.

Hawke tried to stifle her laughter.  “You’re welcome to admire them if you’d ever come ashore, Bela.”

“You live _ever_ so far from port,” Isabela complained.  She sat beside Hawke, taking a greying lock of Hawke’s hair between her fingers.  “You know, there’s a girl on my ship with a spell that can fix this.”  Indeed, Isabela’s hair was as black as ever.

Hawke smirked.  “Fenris says he doesn’t mind,”

Fenris did not mind.  Where some might have seen the grey hairs as a discouraging symbol of advancing age, Fenris only saw _time_.  The fact that he could remember a day when Hawke’s hair had been uniformly dark, a time when the lines around her eyes had only appeared while she smiled, it was all proof of the years spent at her side.  Years solid in his own mind.  Years not lost to him like so many others.

Isabela smiled and shrugged.  “Well you’re lucky on both fronts then, Hawke.  Elves age rather well, don’t they?”

Hawke shot him a look.  “Oh, they do.”

“Please,” El muttered, “don’t start flirting here too.”

Resting her chin on her folded hands, Isabela leaned onto the table towards El.  “Here _too_?  Do tell, kitten.”

El grinned.  “Oh, once we get out to sea they can’t keep off each other.  Whispering like the whole ship can’t hear them and then sneaking off to their cabin for hours at a time.”

“ _Hours_ …”  Isabela seemed equally awed and skeptical.

Fenris rolled his eyes.  “People do _sleep_ in cabins, you know.”

The pirate raised an eyebrow.  “So enthusiastic you need to sleep afterwards…  I hope you’re taking notes, Varric.”

The dwarf tapped his head with one finger.  “All up here, Rivaini.”

Years spent across the table from Isabela and Varric had taught Fenris that denial and protest would never work.  Embarrassed demands to change the subject would only spur them on.  No, the only way to draw those two off a topic was to present a better one.

Luckily, Hawke was equally experienced with their friendly intrusions.  “True enough,” she confessed.  “Being on a ship brought back some pleasant memories.  This place brings back memories too, doesn’t it dear?”  The small, wry smile on her lips told him everything he needed to know.

Fenris glanced from Hawke to Varric, then back again.  He hummed thoughtfully as he ran his fingers over the fine, polished wood table in front of them.  They were sitting in the Viscount’s private dining room, where he had often shared a meal with Hawke during her last weeks as Kirkwall’s ruler.  Truthfully, meals had been all they shared in that particular room, but Varric didn’t know that.

Hawke smirked openly, her voice dropping to almost a purr.  “Oh yes… Was it _this_ table?  Or the one in the other room?”

“I distinctly recall…” Fenris began.

“Hey now!  I’m sure the two of you made… _use_ … of every damn article in the place, but I don’t need to hear about it,” Varric complained.

“Didn’t you always say you wanted details?  For… literary purposes?” Hawke asked with mock innocence.

“That was before I had to eat my dinner on those details.”

“Like the Hanged Man didn’t hold worse,” Hawke snorted.

Varric downed the rest of his glass.  “Oh, I’m sure, but ignorance is bliss.”

“Your dinner table is safe, Dwarf,” Fenris explained.  “If you do not wish to hear of the furniture we did make _use_ of, perhaps we should move on.”

“What if _I_ want to hear?” Isabela whined.

Hawke patted her shoulder.  “Another time, Bela.  I want to hear about the state of Kirkwall from the esteemed Viscount himself.”

Varric poured himself another glass, chuckling.  “You want to know how your _estate_ is doing.”

“My estate is _in_ Kirkwall, isn’t it?”

“That it is, Hawke.  If you’re ever interested in visiting the city openly, you’ll find your property in order.  A bit dusty, but nothing you can’t handle.”

How Varric had kept the Templars from seizing the home of Hawke’s maternal ancestors, Fenris didn’t know.  Perhaps they had merely left it as a sort of trap, hoping she would be foolish enough to return.  Lyrium-maddened Templars… Fenris sighed to himself.  It was so long ago, and yet being in the Keep, being in _Kirkwall_ , brought the memories up as fresh as ever.

“You haven’t asked about your mansion, Broody,” Varric pointed out.

Fenris almost laughed.  _His_ mansion.  “I expect it has rotted and fallen over, or perhaps become home to a new squatter.”

Varric smirked like a cat with the cream.  “Neither.”  He hopped down from his seat and went to pull a file from the shelf.  He passed it to Fenris, still grinning.

Fenris opened the file, confused by the sketches and floorplans inside.  “You renovated it?”

“You’re joking,” Hawke said, holding out her hand so that Fenris could hand her the plans.

“Not at all.  We even cleaned up the bodies,” Varric explained.

El turned to him, snickering.  “Father, you really just let the bodies lie about?  That wasn’t Uncle Varric’s exaggeration for his book?”

“Princess,” Varric admonished her, “when do I exaggerate?”

Malcolm shook his head, nearly laughing himself.  “Do you want me to start keeping a list?  Really though, Father… the bodies?”

“At first I was simply preoccupied,” Fenris explained, half-distracted, still shuffling through the pages inside the file, “but when a few days passed and they showed no signs of rot, I worried they were cursed and thought better of touching them.”

Fenris was vaguely aware of Malcolm’s assenting shrug and some whispered discussion between his children, but his focus shifted even more to the contents of the file… Additional floor plans, invoices for materials, labor contracts, bills of sale for furniture… Fenris was beginning to wonder why Varric would hand him such a pile of nonsense rather than just tell him.  Finally, Fenris reached the last sheet.  It was a contract commissioning the crafting of a large wooden sign: The Wolf’s Academy of Letters.

“The children are taught their sums too,” Varric explained when he saw Fenris had reached the intended page.  “I just didn’t want the sign to be too wordy.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “I do not understand, Dwarf.  You turned a cursed, decrepit mansion into a school?”

Varric’s smile had become less prideful and more honest.  “I prefer to say that I had the city buy up an otherwise undesirable property and repurpose it for the public good.  It is a school, a place of learning for children out of Lowtown and Darktown.  Initially I funded it using coin the Guard confiscated from slavers on the Wounded Coast, but it’s also become a fashionable charity for Hightown residents.”

“You’re making slavers pay to teach children to read…” Fenris mused.  Children who might otherwise have been their merchandise.

“The brighter ones, yes.  I thought about being a bit more transparent with the name, but I assumed you wouldn’t appreciate that.”

The _Wolf’s_ Academy of Letters.

Suddenly Fenris understood.  He smiled at Varric and raised his glass.  “I can think of no better use for the place.”

“Me either, Elf.”

 

* * *

 

Head light from the drink, purse light from the cards, and mood light from the company, Fenris rifled through his bag looking for a clean shirt.  Aveline was still a poor sport at cards.  After a particularly bad hand, to Donnic’s horror and everyone else’s amusement, she had dumped her tankard over Fenris’s head.  He’d washed his hair in the basin, but he still needed to change his clothes if he didn’t want to go to bed smelling like ale.  Hawke had demanded he not go to bed smelling like ale.

He smiled to himself at the thought of how she’d wrinkled her nose and pushed him into their room before going to bid the children goodnight.  He found the shirt he wanted, but as he pulled it from his bag, his smile faded.  An envelope slipped out with the shirt, flopping onto the bed.

The envelope from Varania.

Fenris sighed.

Malcolm had brought him the envelope with a nervous, apologetic explanation:  Varania had approached him, and he had listened, no more.  It made Fenris angry that she’d accosted his son, made _his_ child the messenger for her guilt instead of her own.  It made him angrier, at himself, that his son feared his reaction in the slightest.  There was no cause for him to be angry with Malcolm.  Thankfully, that assertion had eased the tension in the boy’s shoulders.

Fenris had also considered that the envelope might be some sort of trap and nearly tossed it overboard.  Rolling her eyes, Hawke had stayed his hand.  She checked the letter for poisons, Malcolm checked for spells, and Pavus, well-versed in Tevinter politics, checked for both.  Even then, Fenris hadn’t been able to find the desire to open it.  He had stuffed it into his bag and tried to forget about it.

Fenris sighed again.

He sat down on the bed, turning the envelope over in his hands.  Supposedly it contained memories, accounts of his childhood, of his parents, of his sister.  That all felt so far away… His present was Hawke and the children and the little house tucked in the hills.  Kirkwall had been a lifetime ago, and Danarius a lifetime before that.  Did he have any use for stories from three lifetimes past?  Parents dead and a sister dead to him…

He thought suddenly of Hawke’s siblings, of how fondly she remembered Carver, of how she had fought with Bethany, but of how she had fought harder _for_ Bethany.

Fenris had wanted that.  When he had successfully reached out to Varania, he had dreamed of that.  When he had seen Varania and memories filled his mind, he thought that dream was in his grasp, but he had walked away with only betrayal.  How had Hawke been so ready to give everything for her siblings where Varania would have seen him in chains? 

Surely it was possible Varania was simply cruel, selfish, or greedy, but even appalling people seemed to love their siblings despite their nature.  No, that was the answer.  They had ceased to be siblings.  He had left her behind.  He likely hadn’t meant to, but in freeing her and taking the markings, he had severed all connection between them.  They had become strangers, and what an easy thing, to sell a stranger out.

That was part of the reason why, when Malcolm’s magic had manifested, and Hawke had gingerly asked Fenris what he thought of the new Circles, he had answered nearly instantly.

No.

Malcolm would stay with his family.  Unless he endangered them, unless they truly could not handle his powers the way Hawke’s family had handled her sister, Malcolm would not be separated from them.  To send the boy away would have been too painful, and Fenris would have missed him terribly, but it was more than that.  His stomach had twisted in knots at the thought of Malcolm and El as strangers.  He wanted them to have what he never could.  He wouldn’t let his mistakes be repeated in them.

And perhaps, mistakes did not have to be permanent.

When Hawke returned to their room, Fenris had forgotten to change his shirt, but he was busy reading of memories.


	15. Inquisition

* * *

Inquisition

Age 3 and then 4

* * *

 

Fenris had never argued with Hawke about anything so fiercely before, nor had they ever argued so quietly.  They spent long hours muttering rationalizations and whispering accusations, quiet because of their sleeping children, fierce because of their fear.  All the choices spread before them were awful, every option untenable.  Doing nothing was still making a choice, she reminded him, choosing a path that could end with their whole world aflame. 

Why?

Why couldn’t Thedas leave them in _peace_?

In the end, Hawke was victorious, though it was difficult to tell from the look of pain in her eyes.  She stood at the doorway, armed and armored, bags packed, horse saddled, with the children clinging to her legs.  It was the one thing Fenris had agreed with her on.  She would not sneak out in the night.  They would not lie to the children.

“Why do you hafto go?” El whined over Malcolm’s quiet sobs.

In Hawke’s face, Fenris could see all the arguments she had so confidently wielded against him crumble to dust.

“I…” she swallowed hard.  “Mama has to help Uncle Varric, and the Wardens, and the Inquisitor.  The Inquisitor is really strong and good, and Uncle Varric trusts…”

“Why?” El pressed.  “Why do you hafto help them?”

 “This is important to keep everyone safe,” Hawke explained.

 El frowned.  “Papa should go too.  A big sword will keep everyone safe.”

Hawke’s eyes flicked up to look at Fenris.  Between them stood their daughter, recreating the very argument that had played out just hours before, while the children slept.  It was clear to Fenris that the dispute was harder for Hawke the second time around.

“If Papa comes with me, who will take care of you?  No, honey, this is best.”

Finally, Malcolm lifted his head from Hawke’s tear-stained cloak.  “When’ll you come back?” he hiccupped.

Hawke ran a hand though his hair and tried to smile.  “As soon as I can.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes again.  “But when?”

“I don’t know, honey.  I have to travel a long way to Uncle Varric, and then we need to talk about the best plan,” Hawke explained.

Malcolm nodded solemnly, tiny hands still fisted in her cloak.

Hawke sighed and lifted his chin.  “Will you be good for Papa?”  She turned to El, too.  “Will you help with the chores and do as he says?”

“Yes, Mama,” El replied, while Malcolm nodded.

She looked up to smirk at Fenris, but he could see she was holding back tears.  “Especially the chickens,” Hawke continued.  “Papa needs your help gathering all those eggs.”

El lifted her chin.  “Yes, Mama.”

“Good girl.”  Hawke kissed El on the forehead and drew her in for a hug.  She did the same for Malcolm.  “I love you both.  I’ll miss you both.”  She took his hands and gently pulled his fingers from the hem of her cloak.  Stepping past the children, Hawke trained her eyes on Fenris.  “And you…”

“Hawke.”

He didn’t know what else to say.  He’d never said goodbye to anyone before, not like this. 

She kissed him before settling her arms around his waist and her head on his shoulder.  “I love you.”

_Then don’t **go**_.  His mind raged, but his tongue felt too thick to speak and his chest too tight to breathe.  Hawke waited for an answer, but when he could give none, she kissed him and pulled away.

“Goodbye,” she said, ruffling Malcolm’s hair as she walked out the door.  Outside, the horse nickered at the sight of her and the children rushed out onto the doorstep to watch her go.  She turned the horse from the house and began to trot away, and still Fenris stood rooted in place.  Through the open door, he could see her give one last wave goodbye.  El waved back with vigor, Malcolm raised a tentative hand, and Fenris lifted his own hand, his eye catching on a flash of red.

The red cloth on his wrist… the reminder of everything he was to her.  He’d worn it all this time, even after they slipped matching gold rings onto their fingers.  She had asked him why he still wore the cloth, and he had asserted that it was even more important.  The swatch would remind him of all he had promised her, remind him what it meant to be a husband and a father.

Fenris moved at last, stepping though the doorway, past the children.  “Both…” his voice came out a croak and he coughed.  “Both of you stay here.  There’s something I forgot to tell your mother.”

Hawke was still waving, still turned to look at them, and when she saw Fenris, her horse stilled.

Fenris ran the length of the field to her side before starting to untie the cloth from his wrist.  “Hawke…” he began, but she had slid down from the horse and caught his hands with her own.

He looked at her, surprised to see tears.  “Fenris… don’t…. I know you’re mad, but please, don’t do this, please.  Don’t give up on _us_.”

“Hawke.”  He tugged his hands free and pulled her close.  “I am yours.  Always.”

“Then… why?”

Fenris placed a kiss on her forehead before backing away to finish untying the cloth.  He could never give up on her.  He would be there, in their home, looking at their children who resembled their mother more and more every day.  He needed no cloth around his wrist to remind him of what had become so solid in his heart.  “This is a different Fog Warrior custom,” he said softly, “a favor of protection for those departing for battle.”  He placed the cloth in her hand and closed her fingers around it.  “Keep it close, and when you look at it, remember that home is waiting for you.  We are waiting for you.”

Tears spilled from Hawke's eyes, and she reached forward to grab his collar and pull him into a kiss.

“Good-bye, Fenris.  I love you.”

“I love you, Hawke.  Always.  Come home to us.”

Her fingers loosened from his collar and she turned to mount her horse.  In that last glimpse of her face, Fenris could see she was still crying and his chest tightened painfully.  He wanted to follow her, to be the man standing at her side, the sword guarding her back.  Instead he turned to look at their little house, where their children stood waiting on the doorstep. 

The children needed that man to be their father and that sword to guard their home, and so, Fenris stayed.

 

* * *

 

Hawke waited for Varric in a ruined tower, perched on a fallen beam, watching the stars.  In the clear, cold air above Skyhold, they shone in numbers like she had never seen before.  After she had found all the constellations she knew, she had started counting them.  One hundred, two hundred… anything to distract herself… three hundred…

She heard a sudden scuff of boots and the splintered door creaked open.

“Varric.”

“Who else?”  He closed the door with his shoulder, juggling glasses in one hand and a wine bottle in another.  “I have the wine, as requested.  I even brought you some bread and cheese.”

Hawke leapt down from the beam, joining him at the group of crates that served as a makeshift table.  “I ate this morning,” Hawke mumbled.  She’d had little appetite lately, even less at that moment.

“Funny thing, eating.  It’s almost as if you’re meant to do it more than once a day,” Varric sighed.  He poured one glass, holding it out to her, but instead she snatched up the bottle.  She took a long swig, and he frowned.  “I hope your Elf isn’t teaching you bad habits.”

“Don’t worry Varric, I won’t smash it against the wall.”

“ _Hawke_.”

She set the bottle on the crate but kept her fingers on its neck.  “Neither of us drink anywhere as much as we used to,” she explained softly.  “I just need to be drunk _today_.”

Varric eyed her, likely aiming to puzzle out the source of her pain before she admitted it.  His gaze lingered on her hands, stripped of the usual gauntlets.  She knew he noted that the thin gold band around her ring finger was still in place.  His attention then turned to the swatch of red fabric around her wrist.

“Has Broody started a fashion trend out in the middle of nowhere?”

Hawke’s lips formed a fragile smile.  “No, it’s for luck.”  She tipped the bottle back again.

Varric simply nodded.  If he wrote of it in a book later, he’d make up his own heart-wrenching dialogue, full of flowery declarations of love the likes of which Fenris would never utter.  Her husband wasn’t a poet, but he delivered the plainest words with a conviction that shook her to the core.

_Come home to us._

She took another swig of wine.

“So,” Varric sighed, “you miss him.”

“I miss all of them”, she corrected.

“I assume you missed them yesterday and you’ll miss them again tomorrow, Hawke.  Why do you need to get drunk _today_?”

More wine.

“It’s their birthday.”

His eyes widened and his lips moved, silently calculating the date.  “Well, shit.  I didn’t even send a card.  Sorry.”

“It’s alright.  You’re allowed to be forgetful.  You’re fighting a war to save all of Thedas.  Besides, I can’t say they’d show much interest in a card anyway.”

“What?  My cards are remarkably fascinating.”  His offense was feigned, but her guilt was real.

“You’re also not their _mother_.”

Varric knew better than to comment on that.

She drank from the bottle again, finally starting to feel the effects.  “Do you know what my first real memory is?” she asked, not pausing for his reply.  “I’m sitting in my father’s lap, eating a giant slice of cake, and all around me are tiny, twinkling lights.  They aren’t candles.  They’re wisps of veilfire that my father conjured, just for me.  I asked for lightning bugs for my fourth birthday, and even though the season was wrong, he gave them to me.”

The dwarf seemed lost in thought, and Hawke assumed it was the author in him, evaluating the merits of such a scene.  Sighing, he turned to look at her.  “Hawke.  Where was your mother in this memory?”

She frowned.  The memory was a hazy, ethereal thing.  Only her father, the lights, and the cake were solid.  “I assume she made the cake…”

Varric nodded.  “Probably, but if she hadn’t made the cake, if she was off doing something that couldn’t wait… Would it have ruined your memory?”

Hawke shook her head.

“You miss them, and they miss you, but you didn’t abandon them, and you didn’t leave them alone.  They have their father, and each other.  If, decades from now, they can look back on their fourth birthday at all, it will be because Thedas was saved from Corypheus, and I’ll make damn sure they know you helped.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris awoke with a start, blinking up at a familiar wooden ceiling in the grey pre-dawn light.  He turned his head, holding his breath and half-expecting to find the bed empty beside him.  Instead, Malcolm and El were curled together, their little round faces soft with sleep.  Fenris let his breath out, long and slow.  Hawke was still gone, but she was alive.  She was alive.  She was alive.

He felt the need to remind himself after the nightmare that had woken him.  They’d never left Kirkwall all those years before, that night, after the counterfeit red lyrium and Cullen’s cryptic warning.  Hawke had insisted they stay, had insisted she needed to show strength as Viscount, to protect the city from the increasingly fanatical Templars.  She’d gone to her public address as planned, ordering him not to interfere.  The Templars had arrested her, just as Cullen had warned, and then… while Fenris stood, rooted to the spot by lyrium crystals that grew from his skin into the ground, powerless to save her… they’d hung her in the public square.

Fenris took another deep breath.  It was a dream.  She was alive.

Such fearful dreams had come to him sporadically since Hawke left to aid the Inquisition.  They had subsided for a time, once he’d read the good news in Varric’s letter.  _Hawke is alive and well_.  However, Fenris had eventually calculated how long it took to travel from Adamant to Weisshaupt and back home.  Trying to account for resting after the battle in the Fade, detours and mishaps in transit, and dealing with the Wardens in their fortress, he’d doubled the time.  By his rough and useless calculations, Hawke should have been home.  She was two weeks late.

_I’m sure Weisshaupt is a mess too, so it may take her a while._

Varric's letter had warned him, and Fenris knew it was impossible to predict her return, but he was still afraid.  She’d already been gone so long.

Careful not to wake the children, Fenris rose from the bed.  Any chance of falling back asleep was lost to him, and dawn was not far off.  He would see if he couldn’t get a head start on the morning chores before the twins awoke.  After draining a mug of tea and putting some porridge over the fire for breakfast, Fenris stepped quietly outside.

He saw to the goats and started feeding the chickens, deciding to hold off on gathering eggs.  That was Malcolm and El’s favorite chore.  A smile crept onto his face as he thought of them with their little baskets, checking the straw nests.  The hens favored Malcolm’s patience, but El’s competitive jostling usually earned her more eggs along with more pecks.  Still smiling, Fenris sighed.  The children had kept him sane in Hawke’s absence.

Fenris’s smile began to fade at the thought of Hawke, still gone, and he forced his focus back onto his chores.  Hawke would return when she returned, no sooner.  No amount of hope or fear on his part would change…

Hoofbeats.

Surely he was hearing things.  The road wasn’t visible from the house, but sometimes the sound of passing travelers carried through the hills.  It was still early for travelers, though, the sun barely up.  Most would be busy breaking down their camps, and why camp on the road with a town so close?  Fenris began to consider the possibility of bandits, assuming the faint sound wasn’t just in his head.  He moved to fetch his sword from where he kept it just inside the doorway.  By the time he stepped back into the yard there was no mistaking the rhythm of a horse’s trot, but the sound had shifted.  It was no longer coming from the road, but the small path leading to the house.

Fenris turned, fingers tight around the hilt of his sword, ready to fight the bandits off.

There were no bandits.

A single cloaked rider reached up to pull down her hood, red cloth around her wrist.

Hawke.

She was alive.

She was _home_.

Fenris’s feet moved before he could think.  He didn’t feel the sword slip from his fingers.  He didn’t feel the lyrium light in his skin.  The distance between them was unacceptable, and his every instinct sought to close it. 

The horse shied from him, the strange blue blur, but Hawke pulled the reins up and the mount slowed.  Lyrium fading, Fenris caught the horse’s halter in one hand and reached for Hawke with the other.  Her dismount was little better than a tumble into his arms, and he pulled her close before her feet even touched the ground.  She let out a small whimper that might have been his name and buried her face against his neck.

In that moment, Fenris forgot about mages and Templars, about the Inquisition and even the children.  For just a moment all that mattered was Hawke.  She smelled of dust and smoke and blood and _war_ , but she was whole and home and _his_ again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part about Fenris’s dream is a reference to my previous fic, and my imagining of how Hawke left Kirkwall after siding with the Templars.
> 
> Obviously, the Hawke Family Road Trip is finished. The next several chapters will be ficlets looking into the past. They are in the works but definitely won't be ready until the new year. As always, thanks for reading :)


	16. Mageling

* * *

Mageling

Age 14

* * *

 

El lay unconscious on the bed, soaked in sweat yet shivering under her thick quilt.

Malcolm shut his eyes and took a deep breath, desperate to focus his magic.  Something that was usually second nature was suddenly so difficult, like trying to hold water between his fingers.  It shouldn’t have been so hard.  _Why_ … No. There was no time for wondering.  El needed him.  Malcolm dredged up a healing spell, but the pale glow lasted only a useless moment before flickering away. Panic rose in his mind. It wasn’t enough.

El was going to die.

He wasn’t sure when he’d picked up the knife, but there it was, edge pressed against his palm.  Just one little cut and he’d have the power to save El.  Surely, that would be enough.

Just one cut.  It would be so easy, so why were his hands shaking so badly?

_What are you afraid of?_

Afraid… Yes… He was shaking because he was afraid, because even the blood magic might not be enough, and even if it was…

_What are you afraid of?_

He was afraid El would die.  He looked at her, in the bed, deathly pale, breathing uneven… She was going to die if he didn’t help her, but he still couldn’t make himself draw the knife across his skin.  There was something… a reason… something he was more afraid of than El dying…

_What are you afraid of?_

Suddenly, Malcolm knew. 

Hands still shaking, he let the knife drop to the floor.

“No.”  Malcolm’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but the word echoed around him.

He would not use blood magic, not even to save El.  She was strong, she might survive the fever.  There might be herbs, potions he could give her.  He would check his healing books again.  There were other ways.  There were always other ways.

_What are you afraid of?_

There were other ways that wouldn’t risk him becoming an abomination… losing himself… endangering everyone around him… forcing his parents to…

El’s scream shook him from his thoughts, and Malcolm looked up.  Gone were the sickbed and the knife.  Instead he stood in an unfamiliar barn.  He could see people… his sister pressed into a corner, afraid, so afraid… and his father, knife raised.

Overwhelming fear seized Malcolm.  _She’s a mage.  Papa is going to kill her because she’s a mage._

That…

When did El become a mage?

Malcolm shook the confusion from his mind.  All that mattered was stopping the knife.  It was a mistake.  It had to be a mistake.  Their father wouldn’t do such a thing.  Malcolm stepped forward, trying to call out but hearing only silence.  He reached for them, one pleading hand held out in front of him.

With a noiseless gasp Malcolm drew back, staring down at hands that were not his own.  They were small, soft, a child’s hands.  _He_ wasn’t a child anymore.  His eyes darted back up to the figures in front of him, but they were not El or his father anymore.  They were hardly people… silhouettes… wisps… 

The scene pulled further and further away from him, and Malcolm realized, half-waking, that none of it was real.  It was the Fade.  He was only dreaming…  No, not _only_.  He was also dealing with a demon. 

The fiend was no meager sloth demon, slithering in only to find Malcolm felt little affinity for indolence.  Nor was it a hunger demon, creeping in with the lean cold of winter, its temptations inadequate for one blessed enough to sleep each night with a full stomach.  It was no desire demon, sauntering in, slender and graceful, coming to him with large, bright eyes and hollow promises of warmth.  Neither was it a pride demon, striding in, hoping to feed off the pride Malcolm took in his magic and his studies, yet falling to its own arrogant mistakes.

No, the demon had played to his _fears_ , not his pride.  It had pried so intently, and even in failure, it had gotten so close.  It was powerful.  In the relative safety of the village, such strong fear demons were rare.  Stranger still, it had dragged him into nonsensical dreams that could not have been his own.  What would cause such a…

A sudden blast of raw magic threw Malcolm into alertness.  He sat up in bed, drenched in sweat.  He took a moment to catch his breath, and spared another to glance across the room at El.  Sleeping peacefully.  Not sick.  Not dying.  Malcolm was on his feet quickly then, out the door.

His father stood in the hall, sword in hand, lyrium blazing.

“You felt it too?”

Malcolm nodded.  He _still_ felt the magic.  It had diminished after the initial blast, but fresh waves of it coursed through the air around him.

Fenris gritted his teeth.  “It’s not on top of us, but it’s nearby.  Wake your sister.  Full armor and weapons for both of you.  Quickly.”

Once prepared, the Hawke family moved as a unit, stepping outside to see a billow of smoke rising on the moonlit horizon.  Malcolm’s chest tightened with dread.  Rall’s house was just over those hills.  Malcolm rushed with his family across the field, trying to imagine what could be happening to his friend.  Rall lived with his parents and brother.  They were simple farmers.  They owned nothing of value.  They were kind, good people who kept to themselves.  What could have possibly brought magic and flames down upon them?

As the homestead came into view, Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief.  While some trees and a wagon burned, the house itself stood untouched.  Better still, Malcolm could make out silhouettes of people standing outside.  The scene could have merely been the result of an errant spark or a tipped lantern, except for the palpable magic that rose with the flames.

“Can mages… Malcolm… Can you put fires _out_?” El asked as they ran towards their neighbors.

“Ice melts into water, El,” Malcolm muttered, distracted.  He had also assumed extinguishing the fire would be the first course of action, but the magic… The flow of magic drew his attention away from the burning trees and the blazing wagon, towards a tight ball of flames just beyond them.  Was that the source of the fire spell?

“Verdan!” Hawke shouted as they drew close to the house. 

A bear of a man, Rall’s father, turned at her call.  His usual kind smile was replaced with a grim mask of shock.  “Mrs. Hawke…  We… We don’t know what happened.  The hounds woke us…”  He gestured weakly to the pair of mabari at his heel and one offered an anxious whine.

“Is everyone alright?” Hawke asked.

“Shira and the boys are fine… but we can’t find my niece.  Hopefully the little girl is just hiding in the house somewhere… She… _Maker_ , I pray she wasn’t in that wagon.  The thing was aflame from the start.”

_The little girl_ …  Malcolm’s dream tugged at his mind… a child’s hands and a child’s fear.

_She’s a mage.  Papa is going to kill her because she’s a mage._

Malcolm gripped his staff and _ran_ , past his parents and Verdan, past the burning wagon.  He stopped just short of the ball of swirling fire.  He could see nothing inside it, no brambles or crates, no fuel, only flames, magical flames.

“You can stop the spell,” Malcolm called, trying to sound calm.  “No one will hurt you.”

The fire raged on.

“I know you’re scared but I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you.  I’m a mage too.”

Again there was no response.  Malcolm began to wonder if the little girl was in there at all, but she had to be.  The ball of flames _was_ the source of the magic.  The little girl…  Suddenly, Malcolm understood.  A _little_ girl.  A child.  Maybe she didn’t know _how_ to stop the flames.  His own magic had come to him in a deafening roar of power.  He’d had no sense of the outside world until El shook him from that trance.  Perhaps the girl needed someone to do the same.

He tried ice, first, but as the steamy remnants of his spell billowed around him, the fire seemed no weaker.  He could try again… He could try throwing a blizzard at the blaze, but he might drain his mana and still never reach the girl.  Malcolm licked his parched lips and wiped his wet brow.  It was a curious thing, that mages could suffer the heat of another’s flames while being immune to…  Malcolm’s eyes widened.  He was immune to his own flames.  He would fight fire with fire.

Taking a deep breath, Malcolm cloaked himself in flames and pushed forward.  Step by step, inch by inch, he cut through the ball of fire.  Slowly, a figure in front of him began to take shape, a young girl, crouched and trembling.

“Can you hear me?  Please, it’s okay now.  We’re here to help, to keep you safe.”  The girl didn’t respond, and Malcolm reached to set a hand on her shoulder.  She didn’t move, and their combined inferno still roared around them.  He bit his lip, at a loss, fatigued by his shield of flame.  Ice had failed him.  Fire had only gotten him so far.  He considered lightning but he didn’t want to _hurt_ …  The familiar glow of healing magic lit Malcolm’s fingers before he even finished the thought.  Healing might just be enough to safely break her free from the firestorm.

Malcolm set a hand on her arm and as he let the spell flow, he felt every injury it found, old and new.  There was a fresh cut on her lip, an old fracture to her arm, a fresh bruise on her ribs, and an old cut across her shoulder.  Any child could have earned such injuries playing with friends, but as Malcolm healed the fresh wounds, the frightened words from his dream filled his mind.

_Papa is going to kill her because she’s a mage._

Healing complete, Malcolm pulled his magic back.  Slowly, the flames died around him and the girl stood, still trembling but no longer oblivious.  Her eyes fell on Malcolm, glancing at his staff before settling on his face.  She looked at him, eyes wide with fright.  “Please, mister…  You should run.  Papa’ll try to kill you, too.”

Malcolm forced a reassuring smile.  “I won’t let him…”

The girl squeaked a warning, and Malcolm turned just in time to see a disheveled man charging towards them with a knife.  Malcolm threw up a wall of ice to shield them, and then he heard a thud.  He stepped out from behind the ice, staff ready, and froze.

The man was on the ground, Hawke on top of him, pinning his arms, her dagger pressed to his throat.  “How _dare_ you…” she growled.

“I knew she was a mage too. I _knew_ it!  Just like her sister!” the man raged in response.  “Let me go!  The _demons_!  You saw the flames!  I came to do what must be done, to kill her before the demons…”  Hawke struck the raving man just once, but with a precision that knocked him out cold.

Beside Malcolm, the girl stood in shock, staring at the man in the dirt and the woman with the dagger.  “That’s… She’s my mother,” Malcolm explained.  “She’s very strong and, I swear, she won’t let anyone hurt you.  None of us will.”  The girl ignored him, her eyes scanning slowly past the burning trees, towards the house, where Malcolm’s neighbors stood huddled around a sobbing woman he didn’t recognize.

The sight of them seemed to finally break the frightened girl from her stupor.  She burst into tears, running past Malcolm into the woman’s arms.  The woman must have been _her_ mother.  Satisfied with the girl’s safety, Malcolm turned his attention to the remaining fires.  It was a simple thing for him to cast ice over the wagon and trees, dousing the flames so that only thin curls of smoke and steam remained. 

Once he was confident that the fires were out, Malcolm turned to look behind him.  His mother and El were busy tightening the restraints holding the murderous man, and Rall’s family was still focused on the girl.  Malcolm began to wonder where his father had gone, but suddenly there was a hand, tight on his shoulder.

“You did well, Malcolm,” Fenris said.

Malcolm merely nodded, weary from the use of magic and still stunned by everything he’d seen.  His father, who had been enslaved and experimented on by magisters, had every reason to hate him for being a mage.  Yet Malcolm knew Fenris would never hurt him… not if he was still _him_.  He was not afraid of his father, and he struggled to even fathom what that girl must have gone through… enough fear to attract such a demon… enough fear to stoke that ball of flames.  Untrained magic was dangerous, but to kill your own…  _How_?  Malcolm didn’t even realize he was trembling until his father’s arms tightened around him in a silent embrace.


	17. The Circle

* * *

The Circle

Age 14 (continued)

* * *

 

“More cookies?” Malcolm asked, not bothering to look behind him.  He’d already caught the humming of a familiar Fereldan tune, heard the thud of farm boots on feet that had never been taught to use stealth, but the wind had shifted and suddenly he could smell the cookies.

Rall laughed.  “My mother is in a good mood, and you and your family are her favorite people right now.”

“Tell her _my_ mother is fretting all her fussing, but the rest of us are ever so grateful,” Malcolm replied with a smirk, not looking up from the chicken coop he was cleaning.

“Even your father?”

Malcolm glanced up to shoot Rall a look.  “ _Especially_ my father.  I know he seems like nothing pleases him, but he’s fond enough of sweets.  The last batch had bits of apple in them and El’s convinced he secreted half of them away for himself.”

“No apple in these,” Rall admitted with a chuckle.

“Maybe my father will leave enough for the rest of us this time then.  My mother is inside if you want to give them to someone who isn’t covered in filth at the moment.”  Malcolm nodded towards the pail of feathers and droppings, and returned to scrubbing.

Instead, Rall hopped up to sit on a wooden crate and began eating a cookie.  “You can’t magic that clean?”

“I… I never thought of it.”  Malcolm paused, truly considering.  Perhaps a delicate application of force magic, especially with heated water…  “No,” he finally answered.  “I’m just as likely to bring the rickety thing crashing down as get it clean.”

They lapsed into companionable silence.  Malcolm continued to mull over the use of magic on chicken coops and Rall ate a second cookie.  Finally, Rall heaved a sigh.  “My mother told me not to pester you… but Maker’s _balls_ , Malcolm, it’s been days.  Can we talk about that fire?”

Malcolm glanced around, seeing only the coop and the chickens idly pecking at the ground nearby.  “What fire?”

Rall snorted.  “The inferno with my little cousin inside it, Malcolm.  _That_ fire.”

“Oh.”  Malcolm leaned against the coop.  “What about it?”

“ _What about it?_   Malcolm, did you see the thing?  That was crazy.”

Malcolm almost laughed, thinking of some of the intricate fire spells he was learning from Dorian’s books.  Now those, _those_ were crazy.  “Sorry, Rall.  It was powerful, but mages can do stranger things with fire than make a ball.”

Rall rolled his eyes.  “You live a jaded life, my friend.  This was the most interesting thing to happen out here in years, but to you, it’s nothing.”

“I did say that it was powerful,” Malcolm pointed out.  “I’m more surprised that nothing was really damaged.  I’ve read of children burning down their own homes when their magic first appears.”

Rall tilted his head.  “Did you make a fire like that when you turned into a mage?  I think I would have remembered _that_ …”

Malcolm fidgeted with the brush in his hand.  “For me it was ice.”

“Oh?”

“El fell in the river and I turned it to ice trying to save her,” Malcolm explained quietly.  He didn’t like talking about that day.  He didn’t like thinking about what could have happened to El, and he didn’t like remembering how to it felt to channel so much power with so little control.

“You succeeded,” Rall commented.

Malcolm nodded.

Rall shrugged.  “Makes sense, I guess.  Fire doesn’t suit you.  You go cold when you’re angry, not hot.  El though… tsk.”  He clicked his tongue and shook his head, grinning.

“El isn’t a mage,” Malcolm reminded him.

“We’re probably all safer for it,” Rall laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

Malcolm couldn’t help but laugh too, but the sound soon faded to a heavy silence.  “Just because it was fire…”  Malcolm turned to look at Rall, no longer smiling.  “Your cousin isn’t necessarily dangerous.  She feared for her life and the magic just followed that.”

“No, I know,” Rall agreed softly.  “I only just met her a fortnight ago, but she’s a good kid.  I wish I could have met my other cousin too…”  He sighed heavily and leaned against the side of the chicken coop.  “I know your parents did the right and proper thing, handing that murdering bastard over for the King’s justice, but… why not just end it right there?”

El had asked their mother the very same question and Hawke had merely looked weary.  _“It’s not my place to do that anymore.  Maker knows I’ve had more than my fill.”_

“Like you said, it’s only proper,” Malcolm told Rall, returning his focus to cleaning the coop.  “My mother doesn’t think the King will have much mercy to spare for the likes of him anyway.”

Rall nodded.  “Either way, my aunt and cousin will be safe now, surrounded by mages.”

Malcolm jerked his gaze back to Rall.  “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t hear?  Some folks from the Circle came.  They’ve offered her a place with them, to study.”

 _The Circle_.

Did the girl have to leave her family?  Couldn’t anyone train her?  Couldn’t _Malcolm_ train her?  Malcolm felt like he should hold his chin up and say that of course he could do it, but he had no idea how.  The weight of it frightened him.

Rall broke the silence tentatively. “Look, no one in my family knows what to do with a mage.  My aunt loves her daughter, but she’s beside herself.  Magic is… hard?  Isn’t it?  You have to learn the right spells, know how to fight demons, right?  The people from the Circle say they can teach her that.”

Malcolm nodded.  “No, you’re right.  She needs to be taught.”  Silence fell again before Malcolm let out a long sigh.  “Going to the Circle willingly… It’s an odd thing to think about, knowing where my family came from.  My mother spent half her life running from the old Circle with her father and sister.”

“My father’s gut reaction was the same,” Rall sighed.  “He had a friend who was a mage, when he was young.  The kid was dragged off by Templars and never heard from again.  The mages said that things are different now, though.  My aunt can stay with my cousin while she studies.  They’re happy to go.  No one is getting dragged away.”

 

* * *

 

Malcolm had caught a glimpse of the mages as they rode up, their robes adorned with the interlocking rings of the new Circle.  He had stepped inside to tell his mother they had guests, and his parents had ushered him into a back room.  After creeping into the hallway, Malcolm was able to hear the mages, but not see them.

“It’s our duty to help all mages, even those outside the Circle,” a woman explained.  “Might we meet with your son?”

“Absolutely not,” Fenris replied, his voice almost a growl.  Malcolm could picture him, arms crossed, scowling, sword at hand but lyrium dormant.  He would make it clear that he was able to back up his words with force.

“Dear…” Hawke admonished.  “It’s only right to hear them out.”  Malcolm knew she would set a hand on his father’s arm and offer the strangers at the door a smile.  He’d seen his parents like this before, diffusing a disagreement with a merchant, dealing with unsavory travelers at the local tavern.  His father promised aggression, his mother offered diplomacy.  In tandem, it had proved effective time and again.

“I am not interested in anything they have to say,” Fenris affirmed harshly.

That was _not_ part of the usual dance.

El stood at the end of the hallway, between Malcolm and the mages.  He noticed the way her hand settled on the blade at her hip.  El hadn’t missed the change in their father either.

“That’s good and well, _husband_ , but they’re here to speak with our son and _he_ might be interested.  If you would rather, there are chores to be done _outside_.  I will know where to find you if you are needed.”  The tension in his mother’s voice was obvious to Malcolm, but likely remained unnoticed by the strange mages.

“You too,” Hawke called.  “Go help your father.”  El hesitated a moment, but complied, leaving Malcolm alone in the hall.  “Now,” Hawke continued, voice lighter.  “Please come in and have a seat.  I’ll go fetch Malcolm.”

Malcolm heard the floorboard near the door creak several times as Fenris and El left and the mages entered.  Light footsteps approached and his mother stood at the end of the hallway.  “You heard that,” she whispered, and Malcolm nodded.  “Well, then you know.  This is your choice. If you don’t want to speak with them I will ask them to leave.”

“And if they don’t leave?” Malcolm asked.

“Then there are two of them and four of us,” Hawke said coldly.  She sighed.  “I have more faith than your father that things can change, so I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Malcolm shifted his weight from one foot to the other, exhaling slowly.  “I don’t want to join their Circle, but I’ll speak with them.”

Hawke nodded and led him out into the front room.  There stood the two human mages.  The young man looked a decade older than Malcolm and seemed busy studying the room.  The woman looked a decade older than his mother, with sharp eyes and a warm smile.

“Please, have a seat,” Hawke offered.  “Would you like some tea?”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” the woman replied, sitting down at the small table and sweeping her hand to suggest the opposite chair for Malcolm.  He sat down as well, noticing that her partner remained engrossed in the bookshelf.  “My name is Lorna, and that is my colleague, Tym.”

“I’m Malcolm,” he offered.

“I must say I was pleasantly surprised,” Lorna began.  “Usually when we visit small towns like this one, we end up fielding at least a few complaints about the local mages.  Even though most are mere misunderstandings, the complaints still need to be addressed.”

Malcolm nodded.  What would anyone complain about?  Did she mean demons?  Destruction of property?  Malcolm had always been careful to keep his magic from causing anyone trouble.

“Here, we’ve heard nothing but praise for you.  It seems you have a talent for healing, and your neighbors truly appreciate that.  Then, of course, there is the incident that brought us here.”

Malcolm stiffened.  Had he done something wrong?  He was grateful when his mother approached with a pot of tea and some cups.  “Do either of you take cream?” Hawke asked.

“No dear, this honey is fine, thank you,” the mage replied.

As Lorna sweetened her tea, Hawke ruffled Malcolm’s hair and went back to the sink.  Malcolm was relieved to know she was there, looking out for him even as she pretended to fuss with something in the kitchen.

“I have to say,” Lorna continued, “you seem quite young for one who managed such a volatile situation so well.  How old are you?”

“Fourteen summers, ma’am.”

“My… You are young, then.  How long has your magic been active?”

“Seven years.”  It had been seven years since he’d almost lost his sister to a terrible accident and a fearsome rush of water.  The beginning of his magic was almost secondary.

His uneasiness must have shown on his face because the woman smiled, warm and reassuring.  “That’s usually a difficult time for all of us, but the key is to move past it.  How do you feel about your magic now?”

What was there to feel?  It was part of him now, like his own limbs, his own thoughts.

His hesitation prompted her to clarify.  “I mean, are you afraid?”

“Not of my magic,” Malcolm answered steadily.  No, he was not afraid of the fire or the ice, and certainly not the healing.  All those things were well within his control.

“Is there something, then, that you _are_ afraid of?”

_What are you afraid of?_

Malcolm remembered the fear demon’s voice.  The demon hadn’t known his true fear because it couldn’t understand.  He was afraid of the very thing the creature asked of him - losing that control.  That wasn’t the sort of thing he felt comfortable telling anyone, especially not some stranger who might be trying to drag him off to the Circle.

He shook his head.

“Ah, a brave young man then.  Well, it’s important to understand that we all have fears, especially when you add magic to the situation.  Often our families are the best source of help, but I’ve always found a good teacher can be a fine confidant.  Have you had teachers, Malcolm?  Other mages who can help you with your magic?”

That, Malcolm could answer confidently.  “I’ve learned a lot from my aunt, and from my parents’ friends who are mages.  Then there are the books…”

“Like this one?” Tym spat, slamming a book down on the table between Malcolm and Lorna, rattling the teacups.  Malcolm glanced at the tome, one of Dorian’s, filled with fire spells.  Why should the man be so upset about that book?

“This is written in the Arcanum.  Lorna, he’s a maleficar!” Tym shouted.

Lorna took the book and looked over it carefully.  “Is this your book?”

Malcolm nodded, confused.

“How did you come to speak Tevene, Malcolm?” she asked calmly.

“I don’t speak it well, but I can read it.  My father taught me… He was born in Tevinter.”  Beside him, Tym gave a derisive snort, but Malcolm continued.  “He was a slave, and his life there left him with quite a _negative_ opinion of magisters.”

“Hmm.  Yes, I thought I heard an accent…”  Lorna examined the page Malcolm had bookmarked, the latest spell he’d been working on.  One eyebrow lifted.  “He’s not a mage though, so where did you get this book?”

“One of my mother’s friends visited last year.  He was trying to teach me fire spells, since I wasn’t very good at them.”

“I see.”  Lorna closed the book, sighed, and smacked it hard into Tym’s shoulder.  “These are standard fire spells, you dolt.  You shouldn’t even need to be able to read Tevene to see that.”  She turned to Malcolm.  “I am actually quite impressed with your progress, Malcolm.  I wouldn’t have thought you’d be able to receive a proper education in a small, secluded town like this.”

Her praise surprised him.  “Thank you.  It… um… Well, it helps that I do well with books.  I’ve also tried to learn as much from my teachers as possible.”  A Grey Warden taught by her Circle-trained apostate father, a Dalish elf who occasionally practiced blood magic, and a Tevinter magister who never did, Malcolm’s teachers had been skilled, battle-hardened, and certainly eclectic.  “They’re all quite different from one another, and they each taught me different things.”

Lorna sipped her tea.  “These are your parents’ friends, then?  Your parents seem well-traveled.”  Her gaze shifted to Hawke, standing beside the sink, her hand resting casually on the dagger at her hip.  Suddenly, the mage’s eyes widened with recognition, and she set down her teacup.

“The Inquisition once brought a lot of good people together for a good cause.  I’m no stranger to what such collaboration can accomplish.  The Circle would welcome you if you ever wanted to study with us, but clearly you are a bright and careful young man with plenty of resources available to you here.  Be proud of what you did for that girl, and keep up your studies,” Lorna said with a faint and knowing smile. 

She turned to Tym with a sigh.  “Please go put that spell book back where you found it.  This family obviously knows what they’re doing, and I’d almost dare to say the boy is a better mage than you at this point.”  Tym turned red, ducking his head in apology and shuffling off to replace the book.

“Thank you, ma’am, for the tea,” Lorna told Hawke as she stood.  “I hope that we can be of service should your family ever find need, and be pleasantly unobtrusive otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the idea for these two chapters and felt it was a good way to delve even deeper into Malcolm, build aspects of the Hawke family and my post-canon Thedas, and perhaps hint at groundwork for future chapters. Next, I intend to go further back in time and catch up with some old friends.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and all comments are appreciated.


	18. A Sort of Family

* * *

A Sort of Family

Age 6

* * *

 

Hawke sometimes felt the stark distinction between the two lives she had lived in Ferelden.  In one, she was the child, and the Blight had taken everything from her.  In the other, she was the mother, and often marveled at how much she had been given.  Caught in the middle was Kirkwall, with the memories of friends not gone, but achingly far away.  Friends like the dwarf and the elf on her doorstep.

“Looking good, Hawke,” Varric offered, flashing a grin.

Merrill, meanwhile devolved into teary-eyed rambling.  “Oh Hawke, it’s been so long.  Sometimes I would see a hawk and think about you, and sometimes I would think about you even if I didn’t see a bird at all, and sometimes…” 

Hawke silenced her with a hug.  “I missed you too.”

“Where’s the rest of your flock?” Varric wondered.

“Fenris took the twins out into the forest to check their snares.”

Varric grinned.  “Papa wolf is teaching his pups to hunt, then.”

“He’s been at that for a while.  El is faster setting snares, but Malcolm’s are more reliable.  Between the two of them, I expect they’ll come back with something for supper,” Hawke explained.  She turned to Merrill.  “And what about you?  I thought you were bringing everyone along?”

“The aravels are nearby, but we rode ahead on Varric’s horses.  Horses are faster than aravels, you know.  I wanted to go faster because I was just so excited to see you, but I didn’t know if too many of us would crowd your yard.  Your neighbors won’t mind, will they?  Sometimes people aren’t happy to see us.”

Hawke offered her a gentle smile.  “ _I’m_ happy to see you.  We have plenty of space, and don’t worry about our neighbors.”

“You really don’t think they’ll mind?  It must be unusual for them to see Dalish outside the forest and trading posts, and we’re hard to miss, what with the aravels and halla and things.”

“My husband glows blue and fights bears when he’s bored,” Hawke snickered.  “They’ve come to expect the unusual from us.”

“Oh good!  I do like your farm, Hawke.  It was ever so easy to find.”

“ _Easy to find_?” Hawke shot Varric a look.

The dwarf shrugged.  “I told her about the river crossing nearby and she all but led us here herself.”

Merrill tilted her head.  “Why do both look so surprised?”

“Daisy… you needed a ball of string to make it home every night in Kirkwall.  Surely you understand our shock that you’ve suddenly become a crack navigator?”

“Oh, but it’s not the same thing at all!” Merrill twittered.  “Kirkwall was such a maze of walls and stairs, and it was hard to see the stars with the light and smoke from everyone’s homes.  If there are rivers and trees and mountains and stars, I can navigate well enough.  Without them, it’s so much easier to get lost.  Though, not for Ithelan.  He’s always able to find his way.”

Varric patted her arm.  “Yes, well, whatever the reason, I’m glad you can manage.  It gives me a lot more confidence in you being a Keeper.”

“Is that why you insisted on coming too, Varric?  You were worried about Merrill finding her way?” Hawke asked.  She stepped back, holding the door open and gesturing for them to enter.

“I needed to come south anyway,” Varric explained, moving inside with Merrill at his heels.  “Meeting up with her just made the trip more fun.”

The elf giggled.  “You’re only here to avoid your duties as Viscount.”

“What?  I resent that accusation, Daisy.”

“No?  Then why is Seneschal Bran so cross with you?  I do hope you’ll be nicer to him, Varric, or you’ll make that man ill.”  Merrill shook her head, dismayed.  “We’ve had beautiful weather, but all he did was sit in the aravel and fret, and now he’d rather stay at the inn than join us.”

Varric sighed and smiled.  “Relax, Daisy, he just loves to complain.  Besides, I’m not kidding about this trip being part business.  They’ve scheduled a big meeting about what to do with the Inquisition, calling it an Exalted Council and holding it at the Winter Palace.  The Inquisitor thinks it will be fine, but it sounds like trouble to me.”

Hawke ushered them to the table, offering her undoubtedly road-weary friends food and drink before settling in herself.  She’d read a rough draft of Varric’s next masterpiece, _All This Shit is Weird_ , but it only left her with more questions about what _really_ happened with the Inquisition after she left.  Merrill seemed equally curious and Varric obliged, regaling them with stories.  Hours passed as they drained their cups of tea and replaced them with mugs of ale.

“And then he just left!” Varric huffed.  “That cold bastard… I thought he was the Inquisitor’s friend, but he disappeared without a word.  It’s a damn shame you couldn’t meet him, Daisy.  I would have paid to see you and Chuckles talk about elf stuff.  He always acted like such a know-it-all, but I think you would have surprised him.”

Merrill smiled.  “Maybe I will run into him someday.  He does sound ever so interesting.  I’ll have to keep an eye out… tall, bald… but you said he didn’t have _vallaslin_? Hmm…”

“Even Nightingale couldn’t find him, so I doubt… Well, maybe I shouldn’t assume.  You’re certainly full of surprises lately, Daisy.”

Hawke frowned.  In her time with the Inquisition, she had barely spoken to Solas.  The elf had seemed pleasant enough, but entirely disinterested in her as the Inquisition planned the assault on Adamant.  That indifference had only been broken by Varric’s colorful comment in reference to Fenris… some joke about taming wolves.  Solas’s eyes had snapped up to meet hers, and Hawke hadn’t understood the strange expression she saw there, like a child caught stealing cookies and a lord sneering at a peasant, all tangled together.  Varric had trusted him, the Inquisitor had trusted him, but that moment had made Hawke inexplicably tense, all the more resolved to always keep her daggers at hand.  She had never told Varric…

The front door banged open, jolting Hawke from her thoughts.  Fenris stood in the doorway, steering Malcolm and El inside before him.  “The children each caught something to eat, and I, apparently, caught _this_.”  From just outside the doorway, Fenris pulled a young elven man into the house by the collar.  Merrill let out a squeak and Fenris pinned her with a glare.  “One of yours, I assume?”

 

* * *

 

After a proper introduction, Hawke had managed to get the small Dalish clan settled in and the freshly-snared game roasting over the fire.  Fenris had earned himself an unexpected hug from Merrill that left him scowling.  Merrill had delighted the twins with sparkling displays of magic and toys woven from spell-coaxed branches.  Varric had given them each a new book and made a joke of being hurt that they’d grown taller since he last saw them.  Supper had been followed by Dalish sweet cakes that even Fenris complemented, and when those were gone, most of the group abandoned their seats to spread out through the makeshift camp.  Hawke stayed beside the fire pit and leaned back with a contented sigh, admiring the stars.

“You look happy,” Merrill said softly.  She was smiling, stroking the golden hair of the little elven girl asleep in her lap.  “I think you always needed your family for you to be happy, and now it’s grown bigger.”

Hawke looked past the fire, where El, Malcolm, and Merrill’s other adopted daughter chased Fenris with wooden swords.  The children were shrieking with glee, wholly unaware that the warrior was letting them win.  Hawke smiled.  “Yes, you’re right.”

 “Do you ever miss Kirkwall?” Merrill asked.

“Sometimes,” Hawke admitted.  “I miss all of us together.  We were a sort of family, too.”

Merrill nodded, the smile on her face fading into something sorrowful.  “I miss it sometimes too.  I…”  For a moment, Merrill looked away, but then she seemed to collect herself, meeting Hawke’s eyes with contrite determination.  “Varric told me about the Templars, about why you left Kirkwall.  I am so sorry I wasn’t there when you needed help, that I wasn’t there to say goodbye.  When some of the clan leaders asked for my account of the fighting in Kirkwall, I… I hoped they would trust me again…  Well, they did trust me, but only for that one thing.  After that they wanted me gone again.  It wasn’t the same as the way _you_ trusted me.  I should have thought more about my friends.”

Hawke offered a smile.  “It’s alright, Merrill.  Fenris and I got out in one piece, and we found a good life here.”

Merrill beamed at that.  “Yes, and I’m ever so glad.  You have no idea how long Fenris was making puppy eyes at you, and now you’re a happy family.  It’s wonderful, and Malcolm and El are _adorable_.  I wish I could have seen them when they were little babies.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner,” Hawke said, suddenly sheepish.  “I just had to be sure they’d be safe, because of who I was, because of the Templars and the chance...”

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant at all!” Merrill interrupted, waving a hand to quiet Hawke.  “I was quite busy, and I know I’m dreadful at keeping secrets.  I only meant that they must have been _so_ cute.”

“They were,” Hawke admitted, “but they’ve always been a handful.  I’m sure you can imagine.  Varric did mention you were helping orphans in the alienage before.”

Merrill nodded.  “When you were Viscount, you did so much to help, and the Templars took all of that away.  I tried my best to help take care of the orphans and to teach the people about all the history and customs they had lost by living in the city.  For a while, the people really looked up to me… But then, the Templars got even worse and the elders became afraid.  They decided they should do everything to please the Templars, but being elves did not please the Templars…”

Guilt twisted in Hawke’s chest at the memory of leaving her city.  She swallowed hard, but Fenris’s words echoed in her mind.  _You can’t help anyone if you’re dead_.  It was true, and if she had stayed, would her children have even been born?

“Marigold was the last straw,” Merrill explained, voice bittersweet as she watched the girl chasing after Fenris.  “Her father fled before the Rebellion because he was a mage and he thought the girl would be safer without him.  When her mother died, he tried to sneak back into the city, to take her with him, but the Templars caught him and… well... they killed him.  After that, the elders were afraid to keep her.  They wanted to turn her over to the Templars because she might be a mage.  I couldn’t let them, so I took her.  Before I left Kirkwall, I went to Ithelan for advice on traveling, but I never expected him to ask to join me.” 

Hawke looked at the older Dalish man, talking to Varric and brushing one of the halla.  Tentative, she turned to Merrill.  “I didn’t know how to ask when you first introduced us… Ithelan…  Is he your lover?”

Merrill giggled.  “Creators, no.  You’re just like Varric.”  She lowered her voice in a poor imitation of the dwarf, “ _Be careful, Daisy.  Sometimes men only want one thing_.  But Ithelan doesn’t want _that_ thing.  He told me he loved someone when he was young, even though his clan forbade it.  After that person died, he decided that love was enough to last his whole life.  He told me he doesn’t ever want anyone else.  That’s so romantic, isn’t it?”  Hawke nodded and Merrill continued.  “I think of him like a parent… like Marethari, except he’s not a mage.  He knows all the Dalish things I wasn’t as good at, like making aravels.  He’s a good man and I think he just wants a family again, too.  I promised not to exile him if he falls in love again.  That’s not the sort of clan I want to make.”

“I didn’t even start out planning to make a clan, but more children kept joining us.  Sorenil and Amara wanted to leave Kirkwall too.  I tried to tell them they would be safer with their parents, but they were determined to run away, even without my help.  I’m sorry again about Sorenil ruining Fenris’s snare.  He grew up in Kirkwall, so he’s still learning about the forest,” Merrill explained.

Hawke shook her head, remembering Fenris’s half-hearted complaint about finding the young man caught by the ankle in his snare, making a racket as he fumbled to get it off.  “Don’t worry about that.  I’m just glad the snare was meant for something much smaller and he wasn’t hurt.”  Hawke looked to the girl in Merrill’s lap.  “Is she from Kirkwall too?”

“No, we met Auriel after we left, in the countryside.  Bandits had killed her parents and the elderly neighbors who had taken her in were convinced the Maker meant for her to be with us.  I thought that was silly, since the Dalish don’t pray to the Maker, but I couldn’t say no.”  Merrill shook her head.  “She and Marigold are close in age, but so different.  Sometimes they are so sweet to each other, and sometimes they won’t stop fighting!”

“Welcome to my life,” Hawke laughed.

“I can straighten them out well enough now, but I’ll have to work even harder if Marigold ends up a mage.”  Merrill sighed, but smiled.  “There’s a good chance, since her father was a mage.  That would be nice… if she could be my First.  The Templars always left the clans alone as long as there weren’t too many mages, but now I suppose the new Chantry let the mages free so we can have as many as we want.”

Hawke nodded.  “Fenris and I are in the same spot, really, with my father and both our sisters… I’m relieved by the news from Divine Victoria, to say the least, but that won’t make raising a mage easy.”

Merrill’s eyes brightened.  “Oh Hawke, I would help train them however I can.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Hawke laughed, “as long as you promise no blood magic.”  She glanced towards Fenris.  He had suddenly rolled onto the ground as the children launched their pretend attack.

“Of course not.  Children aren’t usually ready for blood magic, and even if they were, I think it would make Fenris very angry.”  Merrill watched as he jumped up with a growl and the children scattered, screaming and giggling.  “I know he’s still prickly, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy before.”

Hawke smiled.  “I know.”

 

* * *

 

Hawke couldn’t help but laugh as Varric hit the punchline of his joke.

“I’m sure you can imagine how our lovely Guard Captain reacted to _that_ ,” Varric snickered.

Hawke pictured Aveline’s face and only laughed harder.  Eventually she gathered herself with a sigh, and then spied Malcolm across the room, shuffling towards them cautiously.

“Do you need something, honey?”

Malcolm drew closer, nodding.  “Uncle Varric told me to tell him what I thought of the book when I finished.”  The boy turned to the dwarf.  “I really liked it, Uncle Varric.”

Varric leaned forward in his seat.  “You… You’re done?  Already?”

Malcolm nodded.

“Well, I’m impressed then.  It’s only been a few days,” Varric remarked.  He turned to Hawke and raised one eyebrow in a silent question.

Hawke smirked.  “Malcolm is already quite the reader.  I’m sure he could answer your questions about the book, if you like.”

Both Varric’s eyebrows lifted, but he cleared his throat and turned to Malcolm.  “Alright. What did you think about Grey, the griffon?”

Malcolm frowned and started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.  “I think it’s sad that he’s all alone now.  I know he has the Wardens, but… I mean… he doesn’t have any other griffons.   Where did they go?  Grey can’t make more baby griffons by himself, but if they found some eggs, maybe he could keep them warm.  Then the griffons wouldn’t all be gone.  Do you think they can find some eggs?”

“I don’t know.  I guess that’s a story for a different book, Professor,” Varric offered.

“Is that my name now?  Professor?” Malcolm wondered with a tilt of his head.

Varric grinned.  “Why not?  It suits you.  Besides, _Junior_ felt a bit like it was meant for someone else.”

The boy nodded.  “Okay, Uncle Varric.  Do you have another question?”

“No, that’s alright,” Varric replied with a chuckle.  “I’m glad you liked the book.  I’ll take your comments into consideration next time I choose reading material.  By then I bet you’ll have grown out of children’s books.”

Pleased, Malcolm turned to Hawke.  “Do you know where Papa is?  He said today he would show Marigold how to make a snare like he does, and that I could help.”

“I think he said he would be sweeping out the barn after lunch.  You can go look there,” Hawke explained.

Malcolm smiled.  “Okay, Mama.”  As suddenly as he had appeared, the boy scampered off.

"Why _Professor_?” Hawke asked Varric once he was gone.

“A bookish kid like that?  Who’s thinking harder about griffon breeding than the Warden’s adventures?  It reminds me of the Orlesian Draconology professor we met in the Western Approach.  Even with that ridiculous mask, you could tell that he just lit up every time the Inquisitor brought him dragon bits.”

Hawke arched an eyebrow.

“I don’t mean the Orlesian part,” Varric hastily clarified.  “The professor guy, he knew his shit.  He even helped the Inquisition with some dragon stuff later.  I’m just assuming your boy there will grow up to be someone who knows his shit about… something.”

“Ooh, Uncle Varric is cussing,” El giggled, creeping up from behind the armchair.

The dwarf looked startled, then contrite, and Hawke fought the urge to laugh.

“Well,” Varric began, “if I’d known you were there, Princess, I would have watched my mouth.”

“ _Well_ ,” El declared, “I just wanted a story.”  She crawled over the arm of the chair and perched herself on his knee.  “ _Please_ , Uncle Varric?  You tell the _best_ stories.”

Hawke snickered.  “Oh, you’ve spoiled her.”

The dwarf merely grinned.  “That’s what uncles are for.”

El flashed her mother a proud smile.

“Spoiled,” Hawke sighed, though she couldn’t help but smile herself, seeing her two families together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally planned for Merrill to just show up later when necessary. Now, my headcanon and long-term plans require her post-Inquisition life to be a bit more fleshed out than “off doing elfy things”. I’ve always felt like her time with Hawke taught her that she could make her own family, and I wanted to keep with the Inquisition canon that she’s helping Kirkwall’s elves, I just needed to get her out of that city. I hope it wasn’t OC overload. (Why do I keep making new elves?) Ithelan’s name is from the Project Elvhen: Book of Names by FenxShiral. The other names I did as I pleased because they’re city elves.
> 
> The reference to Solas is merely to hint at what we all (should) know from the Trespasser DLC.
> 
> Princess and Professor: Since my Hawke is not a mage, Varric never met Carver and therefore never called him Junior. I can picture that being his default name for a baby boy Hawkeling until he gets to know Malcolm better. Princess works similarly for a baby girl Hawkeling, but that one would stick. I imagine Varric would be tickled by the irony of calling El Princess while she’s swinging a sword around.


	19. Lullaby

* * *

Lullaby

Brand New

* * *

 

Hawke awoke in a daze.  When had she drifted off?  What had she been doing?  She sat up, glancing towards the cradle at her bedside.  The swaddled newborn inside gave a soft grunt in his sleep and Hawke smiled.  Malcolm was a good sleeper.  It was El who…

El…

_El!_

Panic shot through Hawke and she tore at the blankets, desperately searching for her daughter.  The baby was nowhere to be found, and as relieved as Hawke was that she hadn’t dropped her daughter on the floor or lost her in the bed, she found herself tearful and frightened.  Her mind started dreaming up ever more terrifying explanations, bandits snatching her daughter from her arms, demons, _wolves_.  She decided she would need her daggers, but she couldn’t leave Malcolm alone.  Fenris would have to watch him…

Hawke let out a deep sigh.  _Fenris_.  Of course.  He was absent from the bed, and it made so much more sense that _he_ had El rather than bandits or wolves.

Despite her sleep deprivation, Hawke knew she would never be able to go back to bed without seeing her daughter safely in her husband’s arms.  She pulled on her robe and stepped out into the hall.  Already, she could see the glow of candles and hear Fenris’s voice, low and soft and… singing?  Sure enough, she found him slowly pacing the room, rocking El gently and singing to her.  Hawke recognized the song as a ubiquitous Marcher drinking song, but Fenris was singing it so gently it sounded like a lullaby.

 

_Out in the Free Marcher town of Hercinia_

_I fell in love with an Antivan girl_

_Nighttime would find me in Rosa's cantina_

_Music would play and Felina would whirl_

 

Hawke leaned against the doorway to listen, captivated by the timbre of Fenris’s voice. 

 

_Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina_

_Wicked and evil while casting a spell_

_My love was deep for this Antivan maiden_

_I was in love but in vain, I could tell_

 

Not only was it a drinking song, but a tragic tale of romance gone wrong.  It was hardly a song that suited small children, and Hawke wondered if Fenris had been singing to El for so long that he’d run out of ideas.

 

_One night a wild young ranger came in_

_Wild as the Waking Sea wind_

_Dashing and daring, a drink he was sharing_

_With wicked Felina, the girl that I loved_

 

Hawke hadn’t planned to interrupt Fenris, but as he turned in his pacing, his eyes fell on her and his mouth snapped shut.  Such a shame, the song had only just begun.

“You should be asleep,” he muttered, halting his steps but still bouncing El gently in his arms.

“I was, but I woke up and realized I only had half my children.  I feared our daughter had been taken by wolves,” Hawke explained, smirking.

“Just this one wolf,” Fenris sighed.  “You drifted off while nursing her, but even with a full stomach she was still very much awake.  I didn’t want to wake you, and I though perhaps I could coax her to join her brother.  Rocking wasn’t enough, but then I remembered that she likes when you sing to her.”

Hawke’s smile softened.  “I appreciate it, love, and your efforts seemed to have paid off.”

Fenris looked down at their sleeping daughter and sighed again, in relief instead of frustration.

“Why that song?” Hawke asked, stepping closer.

“It is the only song I know,” Fenris answered with a snort.  “It was so popular while we were in Kirkwall, it seems ingrained in my mind, even now.”

Hawke leaned in to kiss him.  “I always thought it was a shame you didn’t sing.  You have such a lovely speaking voice.”

The elf turned red right to the tips of his ears, and quietly cleared his throat.  “It… It is not a skill I possess…”

Hawke thought of how he had stumbled over the words and the key several times, but she smiled.  “It’s a skill you could work on.”

“No.  I can sing to the children if it calms them, but no one else.”

“Really?  No one?  Not even _me_?”  Hawke drew closer and kissed him again.  “You might at least finish the song.  I do _so_ love your voice, Fenris.”

Fenris kissed her forehead, fighting a smile.  “Perhaps...”

 

* * *

 Age 3

* * *

 

Fenris had put the children to bed without complaint.  It was a rare thing, that one of them didn’t request an extra sip of water or one more story. 

_Will you be good for Papa?  Will you help with the chores and do as he says?_

They were taking Hawke’s parting words to heart, both of them.  Still, their best behavior could only hold out for so long.  Fenris needed to be ready for when they inevitably returned to normal, to the headstrong bundles of energy and ceaseless questions.  He needed his sleep, but as he lay awake and stared at the ceiling, all he could think about was the emptiness around him.  There was emptiness in the bed, the room, the dinner table, the house, all the places Hawke should be, and all the places Hawke was not.

Damn the Inquisition.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked, and Fenris bolted up in bed, reaching for his sword.  His fingers grasped the hilt just as his mind registered the sight in front of him.

His children stood in the doorway, El in the front, jaw set stubbornly.

“Malcolm couldn’t sleep.”

The boy’s eyes were red from crying.  In one hand, he clutched his favorite blanket, and in the other, the folds of El’s nightgown.

Fenris paused.  It was usually Hawke who the children went to in the night.  It was usually Hawke who decided if they merely needed a glass of milk or if only a night snuggling with her would calm them.  They usually went to her, but she was gone.

They felt the emptiness too.

He heaved a sigh and pulled back the covers from Hawke’s side of the bed.  “Come here, then.” 

Quickly, as if afraid he would change his mind, they climbed into the bed.  “Sorry, Papa,” Malcolm sniffed.

Fenris tucked the blankets around them.  “It’s alright.”

The children snuggled together on Hawke’s pillow and closed their eyes.  Satisfied, Fenris lay back down and closed his own eyes.  Minutes must have passed, and the children remained silent beside him, but sleep still eluded Fenris.  It was better, not so empty, but there was still something preventing him from drifting off.  Slowly, Fenris turned his head to look at them.  Blue eyes shone at him in the moonlight, eyes so like Hawke’s.

“Papa?” El whispered, quiet as a mouse.

“Yes, El?”

“I miss Mama.”

“Me too.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Neither can I.”

“Papa?”

“Yes, El?”

“Will you sing for me?”

“I…”

“Mama always sings for me.”

“So she does…”  In truth, it had been years since he sang to her, and she had never asked him before.  Still, he found he could not refuse her, and began again the only song he really knew.  As he proceeded softly through the verses, El smiled at him.

 

_So in anger I_

_Challenged his right for the love of this maiden_

_Down went his hand for the blade that he wore_

_My challenge was answered in less than a heartbeat_

_The handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor_

 

How hard it must have been for El, to put on a brave face for her brother when she was just as small and missed Hawke just as much.

 

_Just for a moment I stood there in silence_

_Shocked by the foul evil deed I had done_

_Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there_

_I had but one chance and that was to run_

 

Fenris would have spared more thought to the somber lyrics, but it seemed that El was already asleep.  He resolved to finish the song, but he too drifted off somewhere in the middle.

 

_Out through the back door of Rosa's I ran_

_Out where the horses were tied_

_I caught a good one, it looked like it could run_

_Up on its back and away I did ride_

 

* * *

 Age 7

* * *

 

She was falling, an impossibly long, slow descent into the darkness beneath her.  She tried to catch herself but nothing was solid.  She tried to scream but nothing came out.  Falling and falling and she knew what waited below.  She _dreaded_ what waited below, but it rushed up at her all the same.  She hit the water and the icy darkness swallowed her.

El woke with a start, blessedly free of the empty air and the cold water, instead surrounded by warm blankets and… Malcolm.  She frowned and rolled her eyes.  He had crawled into her bed _again_.

The first night after she fell into the river, it had been a mutual necessity.  Neither could sleep without _knowing_ that the other was still alright.  The second night had been welcome, reassuring.  The third had been understandable.  Now four nights later and El was almost ready to kick him onto the floor.  _Almost_ , because the nightmares still hadn’t left her.

El slid down from the bed and pulled the blanket tighter around Malcolm before slipping out of the room.  Dreaming of drowning made her thirsty.

In the kitchen, El found a pitcher of water and a cup.  She poured some water into the cup, drank it, and then poured a bit more.  Rather than drink it, she watched the water slosh about in the moonlight.  Carefully, she emptied the contents of the cup back into the pitcher, watching the glittering stream of water as it fell.

The river was only water, same as in the cup.  Why, then, was the river so frightening, but the water in front of her so ordinary?  El poured the water back and forth once more, thinking of waves crashing around her.

“What are you doing?”

El startled so badly she dropped her cup and almost dropped the pitcher.  Her father stood behind her, arms crossed.

“Getting a drink…”  El frowned.  “What are _you_ doing?”

“Getting a drink,” he sighed.  He picked up the cup from where it had rolled near his feet and took the pitcher from her.  “Are you going to drink any more or are you going to keep playing with it?”

El bit her lip.  “I wasn’t playing…”

“Of course you weren’t.”  He sipped the cup of water, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“I…”  Her voice felt small.  “I was trying to think of how not to be afraid anymore.”

Fenris looked at her, still holding the cup to his lips, but no longer drinking.  After a pause, he set the cup down and took her hand.  At first El thought he might be angry, might be marching her back to bed.  Instead he led her to the large armchair beside the hearth and scooped her up into his lap. 

“You’re allowed to be afraid sometimes,” he said softly.  “Everyone, even me, even your mother, is afraid of something.”

El thought of great beasts deep in caves and demons haunting old castles.  Of course, everyone was afraid of things like that.  “No one is afraid of water.”

Her father raised an eyebrow.  “Some people are.”

“But not me!  I wasn’t!  Not before…”  She felt tears sting her eyes and she fought them, clenching her fists.  “I like swimming in the pond.  I _like_ the river… I just… I don’t want the water to swallow me up.  I don’t want to fall in like before.”

“Then you will have to face your fears and jump,” Fenris replied plainly.

“ _Jump_?” El squeaked, imagining the water rushing up around her.

“Eleuthera… Some things, like a flooded river, are simply dangerous and _everyone_ needs to be cautious.  Caution is not the same as fear.  Caution means not being foolish, and I never want to see you do something so _foolish_ again.  I don’t want you to be afraid either.  That is why we will go down to the river tomorrow, _together_ , and have a look.  We will go every morning until we see the flooding has gone down and it is no longer dangerous, and then you will jump in.  You will jump in and you will swim out, because I know that you can.”  The look on his face was almost a smile, and El found she was fighting a grin herself.  It almost sounded… fun.

“You won’t need to be afraid because I will be there,” her father explained.

El did smile then.  “Yes, Papa.”

“Now, let’s go back to bed.”

El frowned.  “ _Malcolm_ is taking up my bed.”

“Then sleep in his.”

“I’m not sleepy anymore.”

Fenris sighed.  “You need to go back to sleep.  We _both_ need to go back to sleep.”

“Can you sing to me, then?”

Her father stared at her.

“I laughed at Malcolm for saying that he heard you sing, but you did, before… when Mama was gone.  I remember,” El said.  “Or did I dream it?”

Fenris sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes.  “No, you did not dream it.  I often sang for you as a baby, and I did sing for you while your mother was with the Inquisition.”

El smiled at him, hopeful.

“Very well,” he relented.  “I will sing _one song_ , and then you will go to bed.”

Grinning, El listening as her father began the tale of the beautiful Felina and the hot-headed young man who pined for her.

 

_Back in Hercinia my life would be worthless_

_Everything's gone in life; nothing is left_

_It's been so long since I've seen the young maiden_

_My love is stronger than my fear of death_

 

El’s memory of the song itself had been vague.  She really hadn’t remembered any of the words at all, just how it felt to be cozy under the blankets as she listened.

 

_I saddled up and away I did go_

_Riding alone in the dark_

_Maybe tomorrow, an arrow may find me_

_Tonight nothing's worse than this pain in my heart_

 

She decided that even though the song was sad, it was still pretty.

 

_And at last here I_

_Am on the hill overlooking Hercinia_

_I can see Rosa's cantina below_

_My love is strong and it pushes me onward_

_Down off the hill to Felina I go_

 

As the song continued, El found herself lulled into drowsiness by the rise and fall of her father’s voice.  Eventually, the song ended, and he fell silent.

“Papa?” El asked, finding her eyelids heavy.

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you keep singing after Mama came home?”

“It seemed… unnecessary.”

Closing her eyes, El snuggled against him.  He was warm and solid and safe.  “But… It’s nice…”

She didn’t dream of drowning anymore.

 

* * *

 Age 15

* * *

 

Fenris marched out to the barn to fetch El for supper, but as he drew near, his steps slowed.

 

_Off to my right I see five mounted archers_

_Off to my left ride a dozen or more_

_Shouting and shooting, I can't let them catch me_

_I have to make it to Rosa's back door_

 

El was singing.

 

_Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel_

_A deep burning pain in my side_

_Though I am trying to stay in the saddle_

_I'm getting weary, unable to ride_

 

She sang the song at a faster tempo than he did, not soft and low, but animated, like she was telling a story.  The Dwarf’s influence perhaps, though Pavus might also be to blame.

 

_But my love for_

_Felina is strong and I rise where I've fallen_

_Though I am weary I can't stop to rest_

_I see the white feathers leap from the bowstring_

_I feel the arrow go deep in my chest_

 

Fenris stepped into the barn, watching El sweep the floor with twirls and great flourishes of the broom in her hands.  He couldn’t help but shake his head and smirk.

 

_From out of nowhere Felina has found me_

_Kissing my cheek as she kneels by my side_

_Cradled by two loving arms that I'll die for_

_One little kiss and Felina, goodbye_

 

El gave one last twirl, her eyes falling on Fenris and a smile finding her face.

“Enjoying the performance, Father?”

Fenris snorted, but his smirk remained.  “That’s hardly a song for a young lady to be singing.”

“Why?  Is it better sung by drunken men?  It’s your fault you know, singing it so charmingly, nothing like in the taverns.”

Fenris scowled.

“Besides,” El reasoned, “it’s a love song, after all.”

“Oh?”  Fenris crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway.

“Of course.”  El returned to her sweeping, though with a focus on clearing the floor rather than dancing.  “The man, he would die for Felina, no matter what.  It’s _romantic_.”

Fenris sighed.  “The man is a fool.”

El turned to shoot him a knowing look.  “You’d do the same for Mother.”

“Your mother loves me in return.”

“Did she _always_?” El asked.  The deliberate tone of her voice told Fenris she’d read enough of Varric’s troublesome book to answer that question herself.  Still, Fenris was quiet for a long time, mulling over the truth of the past, not the story of it.  His mind called up the image of _her_ daggers aimed at _his_ enemies, the sound of her laughter in that drafty Hightown room, and the feel of parchment in his fingers as he turned pages, finally, with purpose.

“She did,” he answered eventually, “but not always the way I wanted.”

“Oh…”  His daughter seemed surprised.

“It wasn’t something I could force…  Things simply… changed,” Fenris explained.  “Still, the man in the song is foolish.  The woman cares nothing for him, not even out of friendship.  His actions were so rash that I used to think the woman had actually cast a spell upon him.  Blood magic seemed likely, in fact.”

El laughed.  “You didn’t realize he was besotted?”

“At that time, my mind was still on Tevinter and it was an impossible thing for me to understand.  She was not his master.  He owed her no debt.  It must have been a curse.  I could fathom no other reason he would return to her at the end of the song,” Fenris explained.

“When did you realize?”

“One day, when your mother came to me, to ask me for my help as usual.  I said yes without a second thought.  She was not my master.  I had more than repaid the debts I owed her at the time.  I wished for her help against those who hunted me, yes, but I knew I did not have to accept her every request to rely on her.  Still… I felt, inexplicably at the time, that I would rather be close to her, no matter the danger.  Your mother is no mage, so that was no magic.  The next time I heard the song, I understood.”

 

* * *

 Later

* * *

 

El stood at the ship’s rail and watched as the shore drew closer.  It was a Marcher port town that promised good profit for her captain and that was reason enough to leave the sea for a few days.  Port was never as exciting as the open water, but it was a good change of pace.  She’d stop by the blacksmith, post her letters, and see if she couldn’t find some fresh bread…

An errant gust of wind brought her the smell of fish and she had to laugh.  _Ports reek of fish and ships always end up in ports_.  Her father had been right, of course.

El smiled as she found herself singing softly…

 

_Out in the Free Marcher town of Hercinia_

_I fell in love with an Antivan girl_

_Nighttime would find me in Rosa's cantina_

_Music would play and Felina would whirl_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is my Thedas adaption of “El Paso” by Marty Robbins (1959). The saga apparently continues in the song “Feleena” and perhaps the cowboy wasn’t as misguided in his love as Fenris thought :D
> 
> I originally thought up the first part as a peek into Hawke and Fenris as new parents, but when there was interest in learning more about El, I started trying to think of new ideas. Then the idea for all the rest of this chapter came to me rather quickly :) I definitely don’t have the same feel for writing El as I do for Malcolm, but I hope you guys enjoyed reading. I have at least two more little plot bunnies and a big plot bunny to write.


	20. Birds and Bees and Elfroot Seeds

* * *

Birds and Bees and Elfroot Seeds

Age 16

* * *

 

Hawke leaned against the table and chewed her last bite of pastry thoughtfully, contemplating the day ahead.  Fenris would see to the animals, so perhaps she would get an early start on her trip to the market.  She could also wait, and perhaps Fenris would join her.  Hawke opened her mouth to ask Malcolm if he needed anything, but she hesitated, closing it again and watching him instead.

Malcolm sat at his desk, sorting, mixing, and portioning dried herbs into little vials.  He had one of his books open beside him, ready to confirm his work, but it seemed he didn’t even need to glance at the pages.  Hawke smiled.  Up early and already hard at work, he was becoming quite the healer.  If only some of that dedication would rub off on his sister.

On cue, El strolled out of her room, wearing her sword but otherwise dressed lightly.  Hawke assumed that meant she aimed for a day at the market or with friends, not off in the hills fighting bears.  El muttered a quick good morning and grabbed a pastry, already on her way out the door.

"El," Malcolm said curtly, not looking up from his work.  He lifted a jar from its place on the corner of his desk and shook it.

"Yes, yes," El chuckled, going to the cabinet to get a cup.  "Heat the water for me?" she asked, setting the teacup down beside him.

Hawke recalled that she had recently started drinking tea in the mornings, but what business of that was Malcolm’s?  El certainly needed no reminder to feed herself.  Why would her brother need to prompt her to drink?

Malcolm sighed, but his fingers flashed with ice, then fire, and the cup was full of steaming water in an instant.  El took the jar, carefully measured one scoop with the little spoon inside, and mixed it into the water.  "Thank you, _Healer_."

Hawke's mouth hung open as the gears turned in her mind. _Tea_...

“Eleuthera,” Hawke snapped, causing her daughter to turn and look at her over the steaming cup, arching one eyebrow.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Why is your brother making you tea?”

El drained the cup, making a face at the taste, and then cast a sidelong glance to Malcolm.  “You said the recipe was as old as the hills.  Surely she knows?”

Malcolm leaned back in his chair to look at her, his expression unsympathetic.  “Surely _you_ know that’s not why she’s asking.  I warned you.  _Twice_.”

El crossed her arms and sighed, the picture of her father in one of his moods.  “I’m not looking to fall pregnant, and Malcolm is confident that this concoction will do the job.”

 _Keeping your legs closed works even better._   Hawke sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.  “How long has this been going on?”

“Hmm…  A month?  A bit longer?” El replied.

Malcolm flipped through one of his notebooks.  “Seven weeks and five days.”

“ _Venhedis_ , Malcolm.  You’ve got _me_ in there too?” El complained.

“Where it’s relevant to my work as a healer, yes.”

El scowled.  “Well, stop that.”

“No,” Malcolm asserted.  “What if you’d had a reaction to one of the herbs?  I have to be thorough.”

“Did either of you think this was perhaps something your parents should know?” Hawke asked sharply, looking between the two of them.

El merely shrugged, but Malcolm offered his explanation.  “As her brother, I warned her that you’d likely want to know, but a healer has to keep confidence.”

“I didn’t figure it was anything you’d care about,” El muttered.

Malcolm rolled his eyes, mouthing the word _twice_ , and turned back to his work.

Hawke tried to gather her thoughts.  It wasn’t that she was opposed to El taking the contraceptive tea… it was just… “I wish you had come to me.”

“I can read a calendar and do sums, Mother,” El replied with a snort.  “It’s no secret we were conceived while you were either besieged by the Templars or fleeing them.  I somehow doubt you’re better at mixing or timing the herbs than Malcolm is.”

“I wasn’t…  Never mind.  It’s not an issue of making the tea.  I’m sure Malcolm is more than capable.  I just wish you had come to me for _advice_.  You’re still so young…”  Old enough to take down beasts with nothing but her sword, but still too young to roll in the hay with boys?  Hawke let out a long, slow sigh.  It was a contradiction even the mother in her couldn’t ignore.  “At least tell me who it is.”

El blinked at her as if surprised.  “Jack.  Obviously.”

It had not been obvious to Hawke.  She knew the boy and his family in passing, but nothing more.  “And you favor Jack enough to see him so regularly but not enough to tell your parents or make any sort of commitment?”

“Yes, exactly.”  A small smile found El’s lips.  “Father may have promised you his undying love, but Jack…”

“Jack is a twit,” Malcom finished for her.

El rolled her eyes.  “He is not.”

“He fancies the miller’s daughter but still takes you to bed,” Malcolm grumbled.

“You think I don’t know damn well who he fancies?” El spat, matching her brother’s scowl.  “We’re only having fun, Malcolm.  Besides, Meera doesn’t fancy Jack, she fancies _you_.  Pri does too, even though everyone tells her she’s too young for you.  You’re actually the most eligible bachelor in town, not that you seem interested _at all_.”

Hawke sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of her nose.  Was this how Fenris felt when she talked about her time in the Inquisition?  Who’s having a spat, who’s pining for who…  Maker, she’d known the neighboring children for years and her head still hurt keeping up with it all.

“No, you’re right,” Malcolm replied.  “I’m not interested in rushing off to bed with some girl just because she has it in her head…”

El's laugh cut him off.  “Well.  I _was_ wondering.  You do spend an awful lot of time with Rall…”

Malcolm looked genuinely confused.  “What does he have to do with…  Oh…  Get your mind out of the sewer, El.  It’s not like _that_.”

“Oh?  Dorian’s like _that_ , you know.  What’s wrong with it?” El teased.

“I know about Dorian, and nothing’s _wrong_ with it… I just can’t fathom…”

“Fair enough,” El conceded with a shrug.  “Besides, you’re a mage, so I suppose the desire demons have tried to tempt you in every direction possible.  What worked?”

“Nothing worked,” Malcolm grumbled.  “I’m not possessed, am I?”

“You don’t _look_ possessed, but how would I know?” El snickered.

“El…”

“Fine, fine.  Who _do_ you fancy then?”

Malcolm glared at her.  “It’s not at the top of my mind, El.”

“Ah, did delivering that baby put you off women too, then?”

“I didn’t deliver anything.  That was the midwives’ doing.  They only called me to keep the poor woman from bleeding to death afterwards,” Malcolm clarified.  “What it _did_ put me off is taking the idea of pregnancy lightly.”

“Thus, the tea,” El replied with a flourish and a bow.  “Thank you, Brother.”

“Really, it’s a small price to pay to ensure you don’t die in childbirth on account of that fool,” Malcolm muttered.  “Fraternal twins run along female bloodlines you know, and that only increases the risk…”

“Furthest thought from my mind, Malcolm,” El sighed.

“Well, good.  I know I don’t fancy Jack for a brother-in-law, either.”

“No,” El growled, “ _that’s_ the furthest thought from my mind.”

Malcolm turned back to his work, mumbling half to himself.  “Honestly, I think Rall fancies _you_ and is just afraid of what I would think.”

El made a disgusted noise.

“He’s my friend.  You don’t have to be rude about it,” Malcolm admonished her.

That started the two of them squabbling anew, and Hawke merely sat back and observed.  It reminded her of Bethany and Carver, in a way.  They needled each other even though they were so clearly protective of one another.  Hawke was heartened by the fact that instead of arguing about magic and hiding from Templars, they were arguing about friends and love interests.  Though, the idea of her children having _love interests_ seemed terribly peculiar to her.

Hawke studied El, waving her hands in frustration as she bickered with her brother.  Since she was a toddler, everyone had always remarked how much she looked like Hawke herself.  Yes… the same dark hair, the same blue eyes, the same smile when she was amused.  Hawke, it seemed, was the only one who saw just as much of Fenris in the girl.  Even the spring sun coaxed a golden glow to her skin that Hawke’s complexion could not match.  When she furrowed her brow in frustration or set her jaw with a stubborn glare, it was her father’s face she wore, not her mother’s.  She was strong enough to heft a sword and graceful enough to look elegant doing it.  Those were the features that gave Hawke the confidence to say that her daughter was objectively beautiful.  Why then, had she been surprised to know that farm boys pined for her?

Malcolm, too, was handsome, and seemed to be growing less boyish by the day.  Surely the girls were taken with his kindness and sense of decorum.  It also couldn’t hurt that his quiet demeanor lent to an air of mystery.  He brooded, like his father, though with more contemplation than ire.  He had Fenris’s eyes too… a green one could get lost in.  Hawke sighed.

“Enough, both of you.”  Hawke cut their argument short.  “It’s good of you to be a gentleman, Malcolm.  No one should insult that.  El, I understand your feelings, just… be mindful of the consequences.”

“Consequences?” Fenris rumbled from the doorway.  “What trouble have you gotten into now?”

“It’s no trouble, Father,” El said casually.  “She just wants me to be careful with Jack.”

“Jack?”  Fenris wondered.

“Our neighbor’s boy,” Hawke supplied.  “He lives just along the river, and he is, apparently, the subject of El’s romantic affections.”

Fenris frowned.  “I thought you were always arguing with him.”

“Oh we still argue,” El explained with a grin.  “We just end up venting our frustrations in _other_ ways.  We’re typically quite pleased with each other afterward.”

“Whose idea was this?” Fenris asked carefully.

“I kissed him first, so I guess it was mine,” El admitted with a shrug.

“And he treats you… well?”

El smirked.  “He certainly knows better than to leave me unsatisfied…”

“That is _not_ what I mean,” Fenris sighed, preventing her from elaborating further.  “Is he _kind_ to you?”

“Yes, of course,” El replied.  “He’s an argumentative arse, but underneath that he’s kind.  He does treat me well, and if he ever changed his tune…  Well, I’ve no time for that.  Besides, he’d have my sword to deal with.”

“Mine too,” Fenris muttered.  “Make sure he knows that.”  He relaxed visibly, leaving Hawke to guess at where his thoughts had been.

El crossed her arms, arched an eyebrow, and looked from her father to her mother.  “If there’s nothing else…”

Fenris waved her off and Hawke sighed.  “Have a nice day, dear.”  El took the chance to hurry along, calling a good bye over her shoulder.

Malcolm closed his books and slung his bag over his shoulder.  “I’m heading out too.  I need more fresh embrium.  If you see any linen in the market, I could use some more bandages.”

“Alright, I’ll be sure to look.  Mind the bears,” Hawke replied. 

The boy waved on his way out the door.  “Of course, Mother.  See you both later.”

With her children gone, Hawke sat down at the table and rested her head on her folded arms.  “ _Our daughter_ with the neighbor boy who is either a _twit_ or an _argumentative arse_ , depending who you ask,” she muttered.

Fenris glanced down at her.  “I am not above acknowledging that both our children can be infuriatingly argumentative, and occasionally foolish.  Doesn’t that come with their age?”

She merely groaned.  “I thought you would be more worried.”

“Hawke…  You bade me to warn you if you started sounding like your mother.  If you are concerned about marrying El off to some noble…”

“Maker, no!” Hawke objected.  “I don’t care if it’s a farm boy or the King of the Nugs.  I just… isn’t she too young?”

“How old were you?” Fenris asked.

Hawke thought of Lothering, of kissing that boy behind the barn, and sighed.  “That same age… those same circumstances, really.”

“My only concern is that she has a choice in the matter,” Fenris explained softly.                                             

Hawke knew he had been much older than El before he had even learned what choice truly was.  “I’m sorry…”

Fenris held up a hand.  “It’s not only slaves that suffer in the Imperium, Hawke.  The children of aspiring families are traded like livestock, hoping to breed the best mages.  I attended enough parties, enough farces of weddings, to witness that for myself.  At the time it seemed only one more conceited custom of magisters, but now I pity those children.”

“Political marriages happen across Thedas, but that sounds…” Hawke replied.

“It is worse,” Fenris confirmed.  “Trust me that your mother’s well-meaning attempts at match-making did not even compare.”  Fenris sighed.  “That said, I’d rather our daughter wasn’t in a relationship with a _twit_ …”

Hawke managed a smile.  “I think Malcolm is just being protective.”

 

* * *

 

That evening, El stumbled upon Malcolm as she made her way home.  There was mud on his boots and a leaf caught in his hair, leaving her little doubt where he had been.  “I thought you’d be glued to your desk all day,” El told him with a faint smirk. 

“I needed more embrium, and then I decided I would check to see if the patch of royal elfroot had gone to seed yet.”  He smiled and patted his bag.  “It had, and I got some seeds to try planting closer to home.  I think I’ve found a spot with just the right soil.”

Ah, Malcolm, fascinating as always.  El had to wonder what his admirers saw in him.  She supposed he looked alright, but damn, he could be tedious.  El was also curious about what _he_ wanted.  Surely someone like her brother wasn’t just looking for a pretty face, but he would be hard-pressed to find a woman excited about elfroot seeds…

“I suppose it’s no secret where you’ve been all day,” Malcolm commented.  His voice was oddly free of admonishment.  Rather, El could have sworn he sounded a bit defeated.  “Why _Jack_ , anyway?” he asked softly.

El had no good explanation, only the simple truth.  “I’m attracted to him.  I _want_ him.”

“But _why_?”

El sighed.  “It’s not like I’ve taken the time to write up a treatise.  He’s… Well, he’s daring and sure of himself.  He’s also handsome, tall… things like that.”

Malcolm nodded.  “And Rall is not.”

“Look,” El offered.  “I’m sorry for being so dismissive.  Rall is my friend too, and he’s an upstanding guy, just…  I don’t feel the way about him that I do about Jack.”

“You should know that he’ll likely grow much taller.  Look at his father,” Malcolm explained.

El threw her hands up.  “ _Kaffas_ , Malcolm!  It’s not a calculation!  It’s in your gut like… a… a fire.  Whether it ignites instantly or kindles slowly, it’s a _feeling_ … not something you _think_ about.”

Malcolm hummed thoughtfully.

She sighed and nudged him in the ribs.  “And _you’re_ sure, about Rall?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes at her.  “Yes, I’m _sure_.”  He sounded weary of the whole conversation.  “It’s not like I’m constantly beset by demons, but the desire demons I do encounter clearly make an effort to look female.”

“Do they look like anyone we know?”  El couldn’t help her curiosity.

“No,” he answered tersely, “and if you keep prodding about them you’ll find your smallclothes in a block of ice tomorrow morning.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to help,” El huffed.  “You seem like you could use something, or _someone_ , to think about besides your books and your elfroot seeds.”

“ _Royal_ elfroot seeds,” Malcolm said under his breath.  He glared at her.  “You claim attraction is a feeling, something that takes you over like a fire, but then you mean to hunt it down for me.  Surely you see the duality there?”

“I really do just want to help…”

“I know.”

For a while they walked the path in silence.  Malcolm seemed contemplative, as usual, and El merely took in the scenery.  She kicked stones as she walked, and as she scuffed a particularly large, particularly round stone, she thought of the mill, then the miller, then his daughter.

“Please tell me you at least realize that Meera is flirting with you every time we go to buy flour,” El muttered to Malcolm.

He threw her a look.  “Yes.  She makes it _very_ obvious, and I’m not quite as dense as you fear.”

“Well,” El wondered, “what do you think about _her_?”

“She’s very beautiful and she does seem kind,” Malcolm offered blandly.  “I’m sure anyone would be lucky to have her affections.”

“You’re calculating…” El grumbled.  Clearly he didn’t feel much for the girl if he was perfectly happy thinking of her with _anyone_.

Malcolm merely shrugged.

“Malcolm… Try to see things from her perspective,” El explained.  “She doesn’t know you well enough to start declaring eternal love, but believe me, she feels _something_ for you.  It’s not just a calculation for her.  If you’re truly not interested, tell her so.”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt her,” Malcolm muttered.

“Well, she’s setting herself up to be hurt either way,” El told him.  She watched as he frowned and tightened his grip on the strap of his bag.  The fool couldn’t _stand_ the idea of hurting someone, could he?  “An honest _no_ will hurt, but a _yes_ that’s a lie will hurt worse.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

Malcolm snorted the smallest of laughs.

“When you do find a girl able to distract you from your work, be sure to let me know.”  El smirked at him.  “I’m convinced she’ll have to be quite interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I assume the subject of this chapter isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (haha), but I wanted some good old-fashioned sibling banter, and to cover the full breadth of what it takes to raise some Hawkelings. Also, I needed to plant some seeds of my own for the future.


	21. Flybite Fever

* * *

Flybite Fever

Age 5

* * *

 

Fenris was not used to seeing Hawke so distraught.  She was the woman who had clawed her way out of the Deep Roads, who had faced down the Arishok, and who had stood through the wreckage of the Kirkwall Rebellion with nothing but two blades and her determination.  She was his wife, the person he respected most in all of Thedas, a person he knew to be almost incapable of yielding to fear.  Yet, there she stood, leaning back against the wall outside Malcolm and El’s bedroom, eyes cast to the floor, trembling.

It unsettled him.

“They each ate a few bites of porridge, but El was irritable and Malcolm just wanted to sleep,” Fenris told her as he closed the door behind him.  “Their fevers are no worse.”

It wasn’t as if the children had never been ill before.  From stomach bugs that made it hard for them to keep food down, to sleepless nights spent coughing, to runny noses, fevers, and rashes.  Hawke had handled all of those with soothing optimism.  Children got sick, but their children had strong constitutions, and those ailments were nothing to fear with proper nutrition and care.

This ailment, however, left Hawke a fearful wreck.

Fenris stood in front of her and slid a hand under her hair, feeling her forehead.

“I don’t have a fever,” Hawke muttered, brushing his hand away and refusing to look at him.

Fenris stepped back with a sigh.  “Do you feel otherwise poorly?”  He scratched absentmindedly at an insect bite on his arm.

Hawke shook her head.

“Then tell me what has you so anxious,” Fenris demanded, trying to keep his voice soft.

She looked at him then, eyes brimming with tears.

“Do you remember our trip to Denerim?”

“Yes,” Fenris replied.

“Do you remember the mud flies, and how you fell ill?”

“In a way…”  He remembered the rain, the mud, the clouds of flies, their itchy bites, and coming down with something.  He remembered nothing of the illness itself, only the assertions that he had, in fact, been quite ill.

“Well, here we sit, covered in the same bites…”  She held an arm out as if he required proof.

Fenris sighed.  “Hawke, I am not ill.”

“I know, but _our children are_.  They have fevers.”

“ _Mild_ fevers,” he insisted.  “They are irritable and drowsy, but otherwise conscious and coherent.”

Hawke folded her arms tightly across her chest.  “And how long were you irritable and drowsy before you tumbled right off your horse?”

Fenris couldn’t answer that.

“It means nothing that you and I feel fine,” Hawke contended.  “I wasn’t sick back then, either.  Neither were any of the Kirkwall guardsmen who traveled with us.”

Fenris found the whole thing frustrating.  “What is the logic in that?  If the flies bring disease, why are only the children afflicted?”

Hawke shook her head.  “I don’t know.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris offered gently, “there is nothing for us to worry about…”

“You almost _died_ , Fenris!”

“Hawke…”

She lost that last shred of calm.  “No… I… I was _there_ , Fenris.  For two days your fever just kept getting worse, and no amount of spindleweed tea would bring it down.  That last night you could scarcely breathe and I thought…”  She trailed off, slumping back against the wall and burying her face in her hands.

Fenris took her by the shoulders and kissed the top of her head.  “Go and sit with El.  She might sleep if you sing to her.  I am going to go see that old woman.”

“Her?  Why?”

“She has more grandchildren than I have teeth, Hawke.  If anyone knows what to do, it’s her.”  He kissed her once more.  “I won’t be gone long.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris rushed through the rain to reach the old woman’s small house, panting and soaked by the time he stood on her front porch.  The moments that passed between his knock and the sound of her shuffling towards the door were agonizing, but soon the door was flung open before him.

“Well, Blessed Andraste, I didn’t expect you at my door.  Come inside, boy.  The Maker’s droppin’ an ocean on us tonight.”  She hurried him in and demanded his cloak, muttering about puddles on her chairs as she hung it by the door.  Offering him a seat by the fire, she slowly took the opposite chair with a gratified sigh.  “Now what brings you here?  Did your wife run off to save Thedas again?”

“No, but I do need your help.  The children are ill with fevers and their mother is afraid it is flybite fever.”

She leaned back in her chair.  “Hmmm.  With all these rains, the flies _have_ been bad.  Have they been bit in the last few days?”

“Yes…”

“Probably _is_ flybite fever then,” she said with a shrug.

_You almost **died** , Fenris._

“That…”  Fenris swallowed hard.  “Tell me what I need to do for them.”

“Spindleweed tea for the fever, elfroot paste helps if the bites itch… hmmm… I have some spare spindleweed if you need any.”

“No, we have plenty,” Fenris replied.  He realized, then, why Hawke had always kept extra spindleweed on hand.

“Well, then you have everythin’,” the old woman explained.

Fenris felt his chest tighten.  “Please… is there nothing else we can do for them?”

“Just wait it out, boy.”

His despair must have been plain on his face, because she patted him on the arm.  “Come now, it’s always hard to watch babes sick with fever, but there’s no avoidin’ it now.  Go home, tell them a few stories, and hope the tea helps them sleep.”

“No,” he growled.  “There must be something else.  I can’t just sit idle while my children might die.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him.  “Die?  I have never, in my whole life, seen a child die of flybite fever.”

“My wife tells me that I almost did.”  Was Hawke mistaken?  Were her fears exaggerated?

“And when was that?”

“Before we had the children… Six years ago perhaps?”

She looked him up and down.  “You’re young, boy, but not _that_ young.  Of course you had a rough time.  Your accent too… somethin’ northern…”

“Tevinter,” Fenris supplied.

“That’s your answer right there.  Flybite fever is gentle with children, and if they have it once, they likely won’t get it again.  It’s the travelers that need to worry.  The fever isn’t kind to grown folk who’ve never seen it.”

“Gentle…” Fenris mumbled.

“Yes, yes.  A day or two of sweets and stories in bed and they’ll be right as rain.”

“You’re certain?” Fenris asked.

She rolled her eyes.  “Yes, I’m certain!  Boy, I have more grandchildren than you have teeth, you know.”

Fenris smirked.  “I know.”  He stood with a relieved sigh.  “I’ll take no more of your time, then.  You have my thanks, and Hawke’s, and I will be sure to bring you a share of my next hunt.”

She balked at that.  “Boy, you have those two babes to feed.”

“Old Woman, I also have a fine sword and a wife who’s as capable a hunter as I am.  The children are fed, I promise you.”

“Fine, fine.”  She waved him off.  “I won’t turn down a nice ram shank or boar belly.”

Fenris nodded, going to the door to get his cloak.  “I’ll see it done, but now I have to get home before Hawke worries herself to death.”

The old woman smiled.  “She’s a lucky woman, that one.”

“I am a lucky man,” Fenris countered, slipping out the door.

 

* * *

 

When Fenris got home he found Hawke and both children bundled together in El’s bed, fast asleep.  The children felt warm, but not too feverish.  He left the room as quietly as he could and set to stoking the fire and warming some apple cider.  The rain had him soaked through, and a warm drink sounded like a brilliant idea.  He also wagered that when the children woke, they wouldn’t mind something sweet to drink, either.  Just as he set the kettle over the fire, he turned to see Hawke.

“What did she say?” Hawke asked tentatively.

“The children will be fine.”

“Fenris…”

“She explained, quite adamantly, that flybite fever is mild in children.  It is only to be feared in adults who never experienced it as a child, typically foreigners.”  He spread his arms to indicate himself.

“Like you…”

Fenris hummed in agreement.  “It seems the very mud of Ferelden seeks to protect its own.”

He could hear the relief in Hawke’s sigh.  “I don’t recall having it myself, but I do vaguely remember Carver and Bethany coming down with something itchy when they were young.  No one really talked about it in Lothering, but perhaps it was so widely known that no one bothered to discuss it.  Well, that explains why _I_ didn’t get sick, but what about the guardsmen?”

“Donnic did mention, all those years ago, that the guardsmen joining us were sure to be helpful, being former Fereldans themselves,” Fenris explained.

Hawke slid into a chair beside the fire and nodded.  “At that inn, the man who died of flybite fever was an _Antivan_ merchant.  It all makes sense in hindsight.”  Hawke ran a hand through her hair.  “The children will be fine,” she sighed to herself.

Fenris bent down to kiss her.  “Yes, the children will be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references my FenrisXHawke post-DAII fic, The Right Time for Happiness. You could also call that fic “Fenris loves Hawke but every time he tries to tell her things go wrong.” Getting bitten up by flies and then coming down with a terrible fever is one of the things that go wrong.
> 
> This chapter also marks my last small plot bunny. I am ready to tackle the big plot bunny, a multi-chapter adventure, similar to the Hawke Family Road Trip to Tevinter. I intend to finish writing it before I start posting because I can see real life getting in the way (all good things!), and I don’t want to leave readers hanging in the middle of a plot like that. 
> 
> Again, thank you for reading, and all comments are welcome :)


	22. Friend-fiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating is still teen for this chapter, but there are hints at innuendo and alternate pairings for Fenris. It’s pretty much just a fun little interlude, so if that’s not your thing, you can skip this chapter without losing anything from the rest of the story. This takes place immediately after the Hawke family returns home from Tevinter (chapters 8-14, particularly referencing chapter 9).
> 
> Also, thank you for your patience. I am posting the multi-chapter big plot bunny immediately after this

 

* * *

Friend-fiction

Age 17

* * *

 

Hawke couldn’t help the way her stomach dropped when she answered the door to find the usual messenger boy standing on the front step.  Her family had only just returned home from Kirkwall, and she couldn’t imagine that a message from Varric would be good news.  Still, she sent the boy away with a silver and a cookie and carried the parcel inside.  The outer wrapping revealed a letter and another wrapped parcel.  She set the package aside, and studied the letter as she leaned against the kitchen table. 

_You should visit more often._

Hawke snorted as she read the outside of the envelope, definitely in Varric’s hand.  As usual, the letter did not address her by name, and the lighthearted tone was encouraging.  Perhaps the package was only a gift he had forgotten to give her in person.  She began to read:

_I mean that, you know.  You’re always welcome to visit as long as I’m here, and I hope your next visit doesn’t require any more enslaved relatives.  I also hope you don’t take the included package the wrong way.  I’d be careful where you read it, just in case.  After Rivaini heard about your clandestine act in Tevinter, she got a wild hair and... well... I warned her, but she made me SWEAR to send this to you.  She seems to think you’ll appreciate it, something about spicing things up after being married so long.  Anyway, no shooting the messenger, alright?_

_Happy to see you’re all happy and hoping to see you all again soon._

_~ Your Favorite Dwarf_

A package from Bela could mean anything, and Varric’s comments make Hawke pause.  The children were out for the day.  Fenris was in the barn doing chores.  It seemed like as safe a time as any to take a peek.  Hawke unwrapped the parcel to reveal a stack of rough paper, messily bound. 

 _Milord Riverston_  

The title made Hawke quirk an eyebrow.  She began to read, alternating blushing and smirking.  It started innocently enough, but, like all Isabela's writing, the plot quickly heated up.

_"Milord... I can't."_

_Riverston put on a roguish grin.  "How many times do I have to ask you to call me Garrett?_

_Jack squirmed in his arms, a half-hearted attempt from a man who could cleave a darkspawn in half.  "What would your wife say?"_

_"She would ask if she could watch," the lord replied, holding back the worst of his smirk.  His elf was unfailingly loyal, of course.  "The Lady and I have reached an understanding... quite easily, in fact.  I would never dishonor her, but when I finally worked up the courage to admit my feelings for you, she was remarkably supportive."_

_Riverston's hands slid to Jack's hips and the elf's breath caught in his throat.  The indecision in those sparkling green eyes tore at the lord's heart.  How could he make the elf see that everything would be alright?  That they didn't have to hold back anymore?_

_Suddenly it was Riverston's back against the wall, shoved there by the elven warrior.  "I'll be no one's fleeting dalliance," Jack growled._

_So, he still didn't understand._

_"They have political marriages where you are from, don't they?" Riverston asked quietly, keenly aware of how close Jack was to him, so close he could feel the warmth radiating from his tense body, so close he could feel that strain ease marginally.  "I love my wife as a friend, and we share a bed enough to give us children, but she is not the one I want.  She is not the one I ache for.  She is not the one I would choose.  You are."_

_Jack surged forward again, this time to force their lips together..._

"Ahem."  Fenris had walked up behind her, one eyebrow raised.

Hawke turned, suppressing a giggle.

"What has you in this ridiculous state?"

"Bela," Hawke chuckled.

Fenris eyed the wad of paper and paled.  "She's back at _that_?"

"Oh yes, and this one is quite good.  I wonder if she's gotten some writing tips from Varric."  Hawke held the booklet out to him.  "You should have a look."

Fenris hesitated.  "The last time I made the mistake of reading one of her... _works_... I was assailed with a very graphic description of the things the Mage could do with magic... in the bedroom... to _me_."

Hawke gaped at him.  "You _read_ that one?"

"Don't laugh.  If I was going to be whispered about behind my back, I was going to know the reason."

"Anders isn't in this one, I promise," Hawke bit back a grin, "but you are."

Fenris made a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh and held out his hand to demand Isabela’s work.  He hadn’t read much before he looked up at Hawke.  "This isn't about me,” Fenris insisted.  “She used our real names before, but this elf is named… Jack..."  He frowned, as if the connection was dawning on him.

"Finally ringing a bell?  An elf with a big sword acting as bodyguard to a noble family?  Varric said she was inspired by our ruse in Tevinter," Hawke explained.

"So she was," Fenris muttered.  He returned to reading, and Hawke watched the blush creep up his face, all the way to the tips of his ears.  "Who is this Lord Riverston, then?" Fenris demanded, closing the novella in disgust after only a few pages.

Hawke grinned.  "I think it's _me_."

"But you are a woman."

"Like that would keep Bela from a good story.  You know she always makes her friends the main characters, even if she has to get _creative_."

Fenris looked at her for a long time.

"What?" she asked.

He gently brushed her hair back from her face and leaned in to kiss her softly.  "Either way, I would have chosen you."

She couldn't help the warm smile that crept onto her face and rested her forehead against his.  “That’s good to hear.”  She kissed him and pulled back with a smirk.  “As much as I prefer the name Garrett to Marian, I will say that being a woman has come with certain perks.  I got to have your broody babies, after all.”

Fenris laughed and kissed Hawke again, then held the friend-fiction out to her.  "If you keep this, hide it somewhere the children won't find it," Fenris warned, resigned.

Hawke frowned.  " _Now_ you're worried for their chastity?  I think it's a little late to be concerned about some words on a page.”

"It's nothing like that, Hawke."  Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose as she took the pages back.  "They are more than clever enough to figure out _exactly_ which elf the Pirate has cast as her protagonist."

Hawke didn't bother to stifle her laughter.

" _Hawke_."

She leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek and grinned.  "I understand, love.  This will be our little secret."  She sauntered away towards their bedroom, but paused, tossing a smoldering look over her shoulder towards him.  "When you interrupted me, it was just getting good.  Why don't we finish reading it together?"

Fenris opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it closed.  He strode forward, pulling her in for a searing kiss.  She let her lips linger on his before suddenly breaking away, grabbing him by the arm, and dragging him into their room.  As he followed her, he slammed the door closed behind him.


	23. The Notes and the Neighbors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if the italics in this chapter are a problem. I find the italicized font on this site easy to read, but I do realize there is A LOT italicized here.
> 
> This starts the new, multi-chapter Hawke Family Road Trip! It's all written, I just have to post it. Enjoy :)

 

* * *

The Notes and the Neighbors

Age 18

* * *

 

The coin slipped from Malcolm’s fingers and rolled across the floor, ultimately sliding under the chest of drawers.  Malcolm sighed.  A copper might not be worth chasing, but it wouldn’t do to ignore a silver.  He grasped the drawers and inched the furniture back from the wall.  He rolled his eyes and huffed.  At least a decade of dust was piled behind the drawers in fluffy heaps.  Down to a person, the members of the Hawke family were fastidious about cleaning their weapons, and they kept house respectably, but none of them dusted _behind_ furniture.

Malcolm raked the dust towards him, aiming to at least clear the worst of it as he looked for the coin.  He was surprised, then, to discover some folded paper among the motes.  Intrigued, he unfolded the coarse sheets, recognizing the handwriting immediately.  It was the same as the notes in the healers’ manuals.  _Anders_.

The pages seemed to be torn from a binding.  Between the visible passages, whole paragraphs were blotted out with black ink.  Whatever it was, it had been censored.  Malcolm wondered if Anders had done the censoring, or someone else, but the thought was fleeting against his curiosity in the available text.  The first page was dated nearly three decades prior, and Malcolm began to read.

_I know she has a habit of picking up strays, but she’s gone too far this time.  That DOG is dangerous…_

Malcolm froze.  He’d read those words before.  He’d only been a child, and it hadn’t made any sense, the way the author carried on about a dog.  Malcolm started to remember how he’d barely begun reading it before El drew his attention away with some game.  He had folded the pages back up and set them on top of the drawers and… they must have slipped down behind, forgotten.

Knowing the text had escaped him once, and knowing Anders was the one who had written it, Malcolm continued to read:

_I know she has a habit of picking up strays, but she’s gone too far this time.  That DOG is dangerous, almost feral.  I don’t understand what she could possibly be thinking, what good could come of this.  I tried to tell her, but she just laughed and smiled at me and Andraste’s flaming knickers I’m weak for that smile of hers.  I know I won’t win.  I can’t make her get rid of the dog._

/

_He took a nasty gash to the leg today, and she convinced him to sit still long enough for me to heal him.  My friend upstairs was practically giddy from the lyrium, but I managed to keep him controlled.  The dog’s lyrium is WEIRD.  I had assumed whoever did it put a layer of barrier spells around the lyrium to keep it from dissolving into the blood, but no, they put spells on HIM, in his skin.  His leg healed before I could get a proper look at the spells and he rushed away.  He didn’t even say thank you, ungrateful sod._

/

_He saved her today._

_I wasn’t there._

_She came to the clinic and I KNOW she wanted to ask me about something, but I had so many patients.  When I next looked up, she had slipped away.  They went to take out a den of smugglers without me and he… They told me he pushed her out of the way and took the blow himself.  That little Dalish was able to slow the bleeding enough for them to make it back to me, but she’s shit at healing and we all know it.  They almost DIDN’T make it back to me.  Maybe if he hadn’t saved her, SHE wouldn’t have made it back at all._

_Maybe a dog isn’t such a bad thing, if the dog is loyal._

_Once the worst of it was stabilized, I got a chance to look at those spells.  Some of them are nasty things, blood magic for sure.  Some of it is standard magic, clean.  Some of it is just hard to make out, like it’s faded.  All magic wears off over time, after all.  We had to give him a tonic to keep him asleep, so I could try to get a better look at the faded spells, but she’s sitting with him and she’d worry if I told her.  And I… I’m… The healing took a lot out of me.  I hardly feel like I’m making sense right now._

/

_She and I fell asleep and he was gone when we woke up.  I don’t understand why he runs from everything, and here I thought I was an expert on running._

/

_He took an arrow today.  It was lodged in there pretty good, and after trying and failing to push it through cleanly, he grabbed me by the collar.  I swore he was going to hit me.  Instead he just growled something about the count of three and did his light-up party trick.  I should make a note in my healing manuals: It’s easier to phase arrows out of a patient than pull them out. Haha._

_Though, When he lit up, I managed to shut my upstairs neighbor up about the singing long enough to understand more of the spells.  They were so much easier to read when the lyrium was lit.  In just that fraction of a second I saw more than I ever could have otherwise._

_I have to think about what this all means, if I could even do anything, if I SHOULD even do anything._

/

_What was done to him, it wasn’t right, and he’s her friend.  I see the way he looks at her, even now, even though she chose me, but it would be wrong not to help.  There are leaks in the spells, and lyrium poisoning is not a death I’d wish on anyone, not even Templars.  And he’s not a Templar.  He’s her friend.  She loves him, even if she chose me._

/

_I tried talking to him and I failed SPECTACULARLY.   I don’t think I’ve ever seen something escalate so quickly, even with the company I keep.  He had been starting to seem a little less guarded, even let me join them for diamondback, but I think that’s all gone to the Void now.  He jumped to all the worst conclusions.  I only wanted to help, because of her, because I’m a healer, because it’s the right thing to do – because he’s sort of my friend too._

/

_I’ve been thinking about him and the lyrium, about where the spells were worn.  Some need to be patched and others re-woven, but I should be able to do it, without blood magic.  The hardest part will be getting him to LET me.  I thought of something non-magical that might help in the meantime._

_I made up a batch of chelation tonic, to help clear the lyrium that’s already bled through the spells.  He won’t like how it makes him feel, but it won’t be much worse than a hangover and Maker knows he invites those willingly.  I’ll go to diamondback today, even though I’ve stayed away for weeks.  He’ll drink more because I’m there, likely get too drunk to notice when his last glass tastes off._

_This is a breach of trust as a healer, I know, but sometimes the ends justify the means._

/

_He looked like he crawled out of the Deep Roads the day after I gave him the tonic, but he seemed fine today.  We ran into a particularly nasty band of thugs by the docks tonight and he got roughed up enough that he needed healing.  It gave me the chance to confirm that he’s clear of the errant lyrium.  I can’t keep dosing him with tonic like that, though.  I need to patch the holes._

_Next time he needs healing after a battle, I’m going to try to fix something small.  Maybe if I go slowly, I can fix it without him realizing._

/

_He’s seemed well, lately._

_Initially, I noticed that he tolerated the leaked lyrium better than most.  Maybe it had something to do with one of the spells.  Maybe he has magic somewhere back in his bloodline.  HIM of all people!  Everyone says the Maker has a sense of humor._

_But tolerating something well doesn’t make it okay, not something like this.  Between the chelation and the progress I’ve made on the patching the spells, he should be in good health.  The markings will still cause him pain, I’ve never figured out how to fix that, but he should feel at least a BIT better._

_I’m glad it’s working, glad I could help him._

/

_I’ve healed him as well as I can, slowly, in increments.  The spells should hold for another several years, longer if I got the tricky parts right.   Even after the spells start to weaken, the leaks will be slow at first.  Given the way he lives by the sword, the spells may outlast him.  I don’t – I hope that’s not the case.  I hope the spells wear out first, and that another healer can help him._

_Part of me wants to try to tell him again, or tell her, but she’d ask too many questions._

_I don’t have time for questions._

_I –_

_We –_

_It’s time for the plan, for MY plan._

_I’ll miss all of them, my friends, but it has to be this way.  I’ll miss her the most.  Being by her side was like finally walking out into the sun after being locked in the dark.  But so many others are still locked away and I can’t abandon them.  I have to do the right thing.  She’ll be okay.  She has them.  She has HIM.  He’s loyal.  He’ll protect her.  He loves her still, even though she chose me._

/

Malcolm folded the pages and sighed.

There was no dog.  Dogs did not become romantic rivals.  Dogs did not drink wine.  Dogs did not live by the sword.  Dogs did not have lyrium in their skin that lit and phased.

Malcolm’s first instinct was to rush to his father's side and ask to gauge the state of his health with magic.  A strange thing to do with no explanation, less strange if he showed his father the papers, far more strange given that he'd never healed his father before.

He’d healed El so often he'd inadvertently memorized the worst of the wounds.  Magic could feel even healed injuries, and his magic knew every gash of a beast's claws, every crush of a bad fall, every singe of a spell.  From the time they were children he had healed her as easily as breathing.

His mother, deft as she was, rarely needed his healing, but even rogues met occasional accidents.  That was especially true with children underfoot.  She had slipped on some ice trying to catch the eggs he had dropped, sprained her wrist stopping that ram from running El down, and burned herself a few times at the stove while distracted by their mischief.  She had always started by brushing it off, but quickly relented, allowing Malcolm to heal her without further protest.

His father...  Even fighting bears, he walked away with more scratches from brambles than claws.  If the man had ever had any injury beyond what a potion or passive healing aura could cure, he had not voiced it.  No, from lack of necessity and wariness of the lyrium brands, Malcolm had never let his magic contact Fenris directly.  It made Malcolm suddenly wonder.  Had his father truly escaped injury all those years, or had he been avoiding healing? 

Malcolm sighed and tapped the folded pages against his knee, wondering what to do.  His fidgeting seemed to disturb the layer of dust on the outside of the paper, and he realized more was written there.  He wiped away the film, revealing a message, hastily scrawled, though still in Anders’s hand:

 _If this finds you, I hope it finds you well_.

Anders had meant for either Hawke or Fenris to read the collection of notes.  Whether as a friend or simply as a healer, he had meant for them to know about the lyrium.

Malcolm resolved to go first to his mother.  He would confirm that the cryptic pages meant what he thought they meant, and then he would defer to her advice for how to approach his father.  He had vowed once, when he was very young, that he would use his magic to keep his family safe from magisters.  He would keep that vow, even if that magister was two decades in the grave.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm watched as his mother read, as her face shifted through surprise, amusement, and concern, before locking into an impassive mask.  He knew from experience that the mask was a bad sign. 

She finished reading and sighed as she folded the papers.  “Anders…”

“So I’m not mistaken, then?  He wrote those notes?” Malcolm asked.

Hawke nodded.  “Even if I hadn’t recognized the handwriting, the events he described would leave me with no doubt.  Where did you find these?”

Malcolm explained first reading the papers, years prior, and his chance rediscovery.  “I think they were with the books Uncle Varric sent when I first became a mage.”  Malcolm shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again.  “Am I also correct in assuming that the _dog_ Anders writes of is Father?”

“Malcolm…”

“I need to know what to do, if Father is ill,” Malcolm insisted.

For just a moment, his mother’s mask slipped and he saw worry in her eyes.  “I know.”  She sighed and crossed her arms.  “Right now he’ll be even less receptive to hearing such things than usual.  Our upcoming trip to help Merrill has him on edge.”

“I could still check,” Malcolm offered.

“And if you found something?”  Hawke shook her head.  “We leave in the morning.  It’s hardly the time to be dosing him with tonic.”

Malcolm knew very well how particular his father could be, but _still_ … “I’m worried…”

She offered him a weak smile.  “I know.  I am too, but your father seems in good health for the time being.  Let me talk to him.  I promise that you’ll get your chance to evaluate him when we return home.”  She held the papers out to him.  “Keep them.  I’m sure you noticed the recipe for the chelation tonic in the margins.”

Malcolm nodded.  “It’s a modification on what I gave the blacksmith’s father last summer.  I memorized it already…”

“Still, keep the papers,” Hawke told him.  “When the time comes, your father will likely want to see for himself, and I know you’ll look after them as well as anyone.”

 

* * *

 

Malcolm found Fenris in the yard, splitting wood with methodical ease.  Slipping into a healer’s mindset, Malcolm watched in vain for any sign of ailment.  Each fall of the axe was as sure and precise as it always had been.  Indeed, it seemed his father hadn’t even broken a sweat, despite the pile of split logs beside him.  Malcolm glanced at the well-stocked wood shed and wondered why his father was bothering with such a chore in the first place.  After all, they would be leaving in the morning, and they were hardly going to bring the wood with them…

“…colm.”  Fenris stilled the axe and raised his voice.  “Malcolm, did you hear me?”

He broke away from his thoughts and shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Father, I was thinking about something else.  What did you need?”

“I’ve got those smoked boar hams wrapped up like your mother wanted.  Can you take them to Verdan?  El was supposed to take them before she went to the market but she’s nowhere to be seen,” Fenris explained.

Ah, a gift for Rall’s father in exchange for watching the livestock while they traveled.  “I can do it,” Malcolm replied.  “I was thinking of visiting Rall before we left anyway.”

Fenris offered him a silent nod and set a new log on the chopping block.

“We’ll hardly run out of firewood if we aren’t even home to use it,” Malcolm pointed out.

Fenris frowned as he swung the axe.  “The wood will keep while we’re gone.  I would rather come home to a chore done, and I am in no mood to idle in the house while your mother flits about with her preparations.”

Malcolm nodded, but Fenris already seemed focused on splitting the logs again.  It was reassuring, in a way, that his father was eager to keep himself busy with physical labor.  It made Malcolm hopeful that his father was feeling well after all.  He found the parcel of hams on the bench beside the wood shed and set out for Rall’s house.

Just as Malcolm crested the hill overlooking the neighboring farm, he spied El slipping into the barn with far less stealth than he expected from her.  Heaving a sigh, he decided to ignore her and marched straight down the hill to the house.  Inside, he could see Rall’s mother fussing with a pot over the hearth and Rall’s younger brother halfheartedly helping.

“Mistress Shira?” Malcolm called through the open doorway.  “My parents asked me to bring these to you.”

Her face broke into a smile when she saw him.  “Malcolm!  Do come in, dear.  Ranon, go help him with that!  It looks heavy.”

The boy dragged his feet and Malcolm beat him to the table.  “It’s no trouble, ma’am.”

“What is it?” Ranon asked, suspicious. 

“Ham,” Malcolm said with a shrug.  “A thanks for watching our animals while we’re gone.”

Ranon’s eyes lit up and he moved to untie the wrapping.

“Don’t you sneak a bite of that unless you mean to be the one tending those animals,” Shira snapped.  Finally satisfied with the contents of the pot, she turned and wiped her hands on her apron.  “You know you didn’t need to do that, dear.  We’re always happy to help our friends.”

“And you know my mother doesn’t take no for an answer,” Malcolm chuckled, well aware that Shira would start baking a pie the moment they returned home.  Of course, she would deny it was in thanks for the hams, and likely insist it was merely a welcome home gift.  It was her nature, and a warm reminder of why he liked his friend’s family so much.  “Is Rall home?  I was hoping to talk to him.”

Shira frowned.  “I don’t think I’ve seen the boy in a while…”

“He’s in the barn,” Ranon snorted, grinning at Malcolm.  So, Rall’s brother knew what was going on, even if his mother didn’t.

Malcolm fought the urge to sigh.  “If you could, ask him to drop by my house later.”

“Oh, Malcolm, surely he’s not too busy…” Shira insisted.

“No, there’s something I need to do at home, and I’d hate to _interrupt_ him,” Malcolm said.  He could hear Ranon snickering as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired to delve into the issue of Fenris’s lyrium when I read about comments David Gaider made. He apparently mentioned that Fenris’s markings needed to be maintained so they wouldn’t poison him and compared lyrium to mercury. It doesn’t seem to be confirmed canon, but it also hasn’t been refuted. I’ve had this idea for a while and I’m excited to finally get into it more.


	24. The Books and the Dalish

 

* * *

The Books and the Dalish

Age 18 (continued)

* * *

 

El ran the whetstone over her sword, admiring the sheen of the sharpened metal.  Her family had not encountered much resistance on the road, just a few very foolish bandits and the occasional aggressive wildlife, but she wasn’t about to let her blade go dull.  No, not when there was a _dragon_ waiting for her.

Satisfied, she sheathed her sword and glanced around the little camp.  Her parents had gone off to hunt for supper, but Malcolm sat on the other side of camp, reading… _again_.  For someone so ordinarily pleased with the idea of traipsing through the forest, he had been even more quiet and pensive than usual, burying himself in his books as soon as they stopped each evening.  Curious, El crossed the camp and sat down beside him.  He didn’t look up.  He didn’t even seem to notice her presence. 

El took his lack of protest for an opportunity to peer over his shoulder at the book in his lap, or rather, the _books_.  One was a larger reference tome that she recognized as one of his obligatory healers’ manuals, the open page filled by a diagram of branching lines overlaying the silhouette of a man and marked with text too small for her to read from her position.  The other book was smaller, its pages a mix of paragraphs and strings of symbols.  The only symbol that triggered recognition was the starburst icon that represented lyrium.  She knew that from the vials of the shimmering blue liquid that Malcolm kept on hand.  The other symbols were alien to her, so she inched closer to try reading the text.

… _incremental perfusion of the amalgamated barrier spells can prevent further leeching or assimilation into the substrate_ …

Malcolm snapped the smaller book shut.

El sighed, it was just as well.  How those words meant anything to him, she would never know.  The title on the cover of the book made sense, at least.  _The Restoration of Enchanted Artifacts_.

She met his glare with a roll of her eyes.  “Sorry to interrupt what looks like a _gripping_ read, Brother, but you’ve barely looked up from those books this whole trip.”

“I’m studying,” he grumbled.

“If you’re making a birthday present for Mother, I want in.  She definitely liked your gift better than mine last year,” El said with a smirk.

Malcolm sighed.  “It’s not for Mother… it’s…”  He paused, and there was something in his expression that struck El as strange.  “It’s not for Mother,” he repeated decisively.

El shrugged.  “Well then, I just want to let you know that on this jaunt through the forest I’ve noticed at least three different plants that I’ve never seen before and you neglected to point them out to me.  We both know that means we’ve passed twice as many new plants that I _didn’t_ notice, and it’s not like you to let that go.  Where _is_ your head, Malcolm?”

“I have concerns about a patient, that’s all,” he muttered, flipping through the smaller book to find his place again and mark it.

Again, there was something strange about him, but El decided not to push too hard.  “Mother and I are enjoying ourselves, and even Father’s mood has improved considerably.  So, try not to fret over a patient who’s not here.”

Malcolm looked at her.  “You think Father is doing well?”

“Yes, and you would probably agree if you were paying any attention.  He’s laughing at Mother’s jokes and everything.  I think he was more apprehensive about the idea of starting this expedition than actually being on it,” El explained.  “He also mentioned that this time of year, Ferelden is more pleasant than the Wounded Coast ever was.  Mother laughed at that.”

“That’s good to hear.”  Malcolm smiled faintly.

“Whatever you’re worried about, Malcolm, just try to let it go and enjoy our little Hawke family adventure,” El suggested.  “It’s guaranteed to be better than our trip to Tevinter.  Besides, if the prospect of fighting our first dragon isn’t enough to excite you, I’m sure you’ll enjoy seeing Merrill again.  It’s been years, after all.”

 

* * *

 

Malcolm had taken his sister’s advice to heart.

He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the real reason for his concern, that the patient he feared for was not back home, but striding along just behind their mother with his greatsword.  Even so, she was right that Fenris seemed in good spirits.  The rest of the family was enjoying themselves.

Why ruin it with fretting?

Malcolm began to enjoy himself too, and started participating in the banter instead of brooding.  That didn’t mean, however, that he put _The Restoration of Enchanted Artifacts_ away completely.  He still read it when they made camp, calling a wisp of veilfire to read by in his tent if necessary.  The book, so small and inconspicuous, had once belonged to Anders, and Malcolm finally understood why the healer had kept it among his reference tomes.  Anders had needed it to heal Fenris, to _restore_ the spells that surrounded the lyrium in his skin.  The magic outlined in the book would not be easy, but Malcolm knew helping his father would take more than just a talent for healing.  So, he studied.

He had always been good at studying.

When the Hawke family had nearly reached their destination, Malcolm reached the end of the book.  After scores of pages of diagrams and technical descriptions, Malcolm found the author’s closing strangely sentimental.  He read the words and could almost hear the author’s voice softening.

_You will, of course, encounter mysteries I have not described here.  In such cases, where you encounter the unknown, I can only suggest that you trust your magic to feel out the way forward.  Magic calls to magic, and if you can listen honestly, patiently, you will rarely be disappointed._

Malcolm closed the book with a sigh.  The author’s words brought one mage to his mind above all others…

_Merrill_

Oh he appreciated his Aunt Bethany for her warmth and familiarity, for the smile she brought to his mother’s face, and for her daring tales of Grey Warden adventures.  When it came to magic she was as prudent as she was capable, but she carried with her a scar of her childhood, a hesitance born out of so many years of fearing the discovery of her magic.

There was no mage Malcolm respected more than Dorian.  He was the kind of teacher Malcolm knew his father would be if Malcolm held a sword or Fenris held a staff.  The magister _pushed_ him, and Malcolm knew he was infinitely better for it.  Dorian’s magic had been honed by competition and academics, years of dissecting his instincts to find improvements.

Merrill… Malcolm would be lying if he said didn’t have fond memories of the elven woman.  He remembered toys woven out of branches, pinches to his cheeks and pats on his head, perpetual forgiveness and infinite patience, especially during magic lessons.  He could hear her lilting voice sometimes when he made a mistake.  _It’s quite alright.  Try again, da’len._   As much as Malcolm was inclined to structured, academic study, he had always admired how Merrill’s magic felt so closely tied to her own self.  He recognized a certain strength in that.

Malcolm remembered what he had told the pompous magister that had served him tea with elven slaves and held his cousin prisoner.

_The Dalish…  They have a fascinating approach to magic… They don’t study magic, they live it._

 

* * *

 

El had to smile when they finally reached the Dalish camp and Merrill rushed out to meet them. 

“Hawke!”

The elven woman threw her arms around Hawke’s shoulders without hesitation.  Hawke, of course, hugged her back just as fiercely.  Merrill paused for just a moment before shifting to Fenris and squeezing her arms around his waist.  He had just enough time to scowl before she darted away, but El noticed that he didn’t even flinch.

“I know you don’t like hugs, Fenris, but it’s been so long that just a little one can’t be too bad,” Merrill reasoned.  “Can it?”  He sighed and waved a hand dismissively, which Merrill took as permission to stop apologizing.

“ _Creators_ , Malcolm.  You’re even taller up close,” Merrill giggled as she moved to the next Hawke.

He shifted his weight nervously.  “I don’t feel quite _that_ tall.”

“Of course not.  That doesn’t happen all at once…” Merrill trailed off and cocked her head.  “Or does it?  I’ve heard that human boys _sprout up overnight like weeds_ , but that is just a saying, isn’t it?”

That made Malcolm smile.  “I can tell you, from both personal and professional experience, that it _is_ just a saying.”

“Oh, good.  It would be dreadful to wake up and find your nightclothes were too small the next morning,” Merrill twittered as she hugged him.  “You’ve grown too, El.  I wonder why they don’t say that human girls grow like weeds too.”

“The process isn’t quite as fast,” El admitted, noting how much smaller the elven woman was when they embraced.  It was strange, remembering how Merrill had previously seemed just as tall and solid as any other adult.

Merrill stood at arm’s length and scrutinized her.  “You’re very pretty, now, like a lady.  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.  I think Hawke is pretty, and Isabela always said that Fenris was pretty too.”  That earned a chuckle from Hawke and another scowl from Fenris.

“Thank you, Merrill,” El replied, miming a curtsey with an invisible skirt.

Merrill giggled and sighed.  “I’m really just so glad to see you all,” she said, beaming as she looked at the four of them.  “Even if we didn’t need help with the dragon, it’s so lovely to meet in the forest like this.  It’s just the right season.  Everything is so green.”

She led them into the Dalish camp and paused when she reached the workbench where Ithelan sat mixing potions.  He turned to smile at them.  “I’m just finishing the preparations and you can enter the ruin first thing in the morning.  Though, Keeper, I need more of these for you to have a full stock of this recipe.”

“Oh, dear.  We didn’t get enough?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well.  We’ll need more, then,” Merrill sighed, twirling a leaf in her fingers.  She turned back to her guests and her face brightened.  “Malcolm, would you mind gathering more of these?  There’s a patch of them at the base of the large tree just a bit that way.  I was just there this morning with Auriel, and I thought I got enough but we need... “

“Twenty more,” Ithelan finished for her.

Merrill smiled and nodded.  “Yes, twenty more.  I trust you know the sort, with the little purple flowers?”

“I do,” Malcolm replied, “and I’m happy to help.”

“Of course you do.  You’re ever so good at things like this,” Merrill said. 

“I’ll go with you,” El offered, and Malcolm simply shrugged.

They left their parents to set camp and started off in the direction Merrill had indicated.  El had no idea how, but Malcolm seemed to know where to go.  He stopped every so often and toed the leaf litter with his boot, adjusting their course slightly.  Finally, even El could see the trunk of a particularly large tree though the thick forest.  When they grew close enough to see the purple flowers scattered around it, El finally opened her mouth.  “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”  Malcolm was already crouched down, examining a few leaves on a flowerless plant before plucking one off.

“How did you find this purple needle in a green haystack?”

Malcolm moved a few steps over, inspecting a different stalk.  “The plant can’t stand poor drainage.  I simply followed the driest soil.  The ground looks flat, but it actually isn’t.  There’s a dip between here and the camp that stays wetter.”

El raised an eyebrow.  “Huh…” 

She watched Malcolm a moment more before leaning against the tree trunk.  Obviously Malcolm wasn’t going to just grab a fistful of the herbs and be done with it.  He would be particular, as usual.  She closed her eyes and enjoyed the cool of the shade, humming softly to herself.  The weather really _was_ lovely…

A faint rustle of leaves made her eyes snap open, her sword drawn in the same breath.  A few yards away stood an archer, bow raised.  Her green clothes blended into the brush, but her golden hair stood out.  If she had truly meant to catch them unawares, she’d have pulled up her hood, El decided.  Despite the lack of stealth, the elf’s bow was nocked and drawn.  El knew she was quick, but not quicker than an arrow.  At worst, she could take the arrow, her armor would keep it from being immediately fatal, and she and Malcolm could fight the elf... and any possible friends she had who _were_ stealthy.  At best?

“Hello there, stranger.  Lovely weather, isn’t it?” El asked, trying to coat her tension with honey.

The elf narrowed her blue eyes, neither withdrawing nor attacking.  Around the other side of the tree, El heard the soft shifting of fabric she hoped meant that Malcolm was drawing his staff.

“Good weather or bad, it’s rare to see _shemlen_ this deep in the forest,” the elf replied.  “Rarer still to find one alone.”

“She’s not alone,” Malcolm corrected, stepping out from the other side of the tree, staff in hand.

The elf scowled.  “Am I interrupting a _private moment_ , then?”  She eyed Malcolm, but kept her bow trained on El.

“I can’t say I know what you mean, but we certainly didn’t come here to draw weapons on strangers,” Malcolm answered.

Malcolm’s admonishment merely made the elf decide to point the arrow at him.  _Idiot_.  El had no way of knowing if he had cast a barrier, but she knew his robes wouldn’t stop a well-placed arrow.  He should have stayed hidden, or at least not drawn the touchy elf’s ire.  El needed to change tactics, so she lowered her sword and stepped in front of Malcolm.  “Forgive my _brother_ ,” El explained, forcing a grin.  “He fancies himself a healer, and we’re here to gather herbs.”

The elf lowered her bow a touch.  “You need a sword for that?” she asked El.

“Apparently I do.  You never know when hostile archers might turn up, and _someone_ has to watch his back while he picks flowers.” El explained.

The elf glanced at the delicate violet blossoms behind Malcolm and all but threw her arrow back into the quiver at her hip as she stormed towards them.  “Typical _shemlen_ …  Did you consider that those need to be treated carefully?”

“Did _you_ consider that I know very well what I’m doing?” Malcolm replied, aggravated.  “Since it seems you aren’t going to shoot us, I’d like to get back to work.  The Keeper is expecting these…”

“What Keeper?” the elf asked, cutting him short.

“Merrill,” Malcolm answered.

The elf went pale.  “Then you are…?”

El sheathed her sword and offered a theatrical bow.  “El and Malcolm Hawke, at your service.”

“Auriel…” the elf managed in reply.  “I...”  She paused, tempering her shocked expression and steadying her voice.  “I was just heading back to camp.  I will inform the Keeper that you’re on your way with the herbs.”

“Please do,” El said, grinning, while Malcolm simply nodded.

As the elf took her leave, El expected Malcolm to immediately return to his work.  Instead he watched her go, face unreadable.  It had been a strange encounter, to be sure, but the girl was obviously just a particularly defensive member of Merrill’s clan, no one to dwell on.  Unless…

“You think she’s pretty,” El realized aloud. 

“I think she’s beautiful,” he replied quietly, turning back to the herbs.

El followed after him.  “Are you being serious?  Because if you are…”

“What does it matter?” he muttered.  “You heard her.  We’re just trespassing shems to her.”

“There’s always friction between Dalish and humans, especially if she’s been stuck dealing with a lot of Orlesians lately.  Malcolm, I’m sure if you talk to her…”

He shot her an icy glare.  “This is hardly the time El.  I have enough to worry about without you needling me over this.”

Perhaps he was right.  The very next day, they might be fighting a dragon.


	25. The Ruins and the Dragonlings

 

* * *

The Ruins and the Dragonlings

Age 18 (continued)

* * *

 

Malcolm found their quest into the Elvhen ruins more and more fascinating. 

First, there was place itself.  Though truly in ruins, buried under vines and soil and time, the palatial structure was beautiful.  Decorative columns rose from intricately tiled floors.  Ornate wrought metal doors greeted them in the open spaces, while carved, magic-preserved wood barred the more secluded areas.  Chipped mosaics lined the walls, telling tales that had gone unheard for hundreds, even thousands of years.

The first few rooms had been bare, stripped of all value over the years by looters.  They had become elaborate habitats for deep mushrooms, nothing more.  Once Merrill had led them past a magically sealed door, however, the untouched beauty of the ruins had been revealed.  They hurried quietly through the first few rooms, and Malcolm found himself lagging behind the group, distracted by the sights around him.

It was only when they reached an open courtyard that the group paused.

“Well… the dragon _was_ in here last time we came,” Merrill explained.  “I wonder where it has gone.”

Marigold merely shrugged.  “They do fly, Keeper.”

“Yes, and slither down passageways too.  It roosted here for weeks, so I do imagine it will come back at some point.  We should do our work and then move onward,” Merrill decided.

“Perhaps it realized the Champion of Kirkwall was on her way,” Fenris said with a smirk.  “Surely it has heard of your past experience with dragons.”

Hawke glowered at him.  “Don’t remind me.”

“Oh?  Does the Bone Pit bring up less than fond memories?” Fenris teased.  Hawke mumbled something about smart-ass elves and swatted him on the shoulder.

“This dragon wasn’t quite that big, I promise,” Merrill said, but she was already walking out into the courtyard, focused on a pedestal in the center.

The second fascination for Malcolm was watching the trio of elves work.  Marigold set to quickly sketching a map of the room, measuring it with careful paces and the counting of tiles.  It was a finite, concrete task that suited her well enough.  Merrill focused on inscriptions, runes, and the spellwork that Malcolm could feel humming in the walls.  She carried a little notebook and jotted everything down in indecipherable shorthand, flitting from one side of the room to the other.  It was Auriel, however, who truly drew Malcolm’s attention. 

She stood against each wall in turn, sketching the view across the room, rendering the architecture with silent precision.  She then set to work on the mosaic positioned between two dry fountains.  Malcolm assumed she was merely copying it, but when he managed to steal a glance over her shoulder, he found she had not only captured the lines of the work faithfully, but the very _feeling_.  Malcolm wondered if she might, herself, be an artist.

He could passably sketch medicinal plants for his notebooks, and draw diagrams to note patients’ injuries, but he’d never thought to put emotion behind his pen.  Auriel clearly had, and Malcolm quickly came to admire her for it. 

While the elves worked, and El complained about the lack of dragons, Malcolm walked the perimeter of the room, his hand hovering just along the walls, feeling for the spells hidden there.  When he reached the edge of the mosaic, he felt something different.  It was not a spell, yet clearly magic.  Malcolm conjured a wisp of veilflame and grinned as the wall lit up with glittering runes.  Intrigued, he pulled out his own notebook and began to carefully copy them.

“Only the Keeper has any hope of reading those,” Auriel muttered, not looking up from her sketch of a particularly detailed corner of the mosaic, just a few feet away from him.

Malcolm had been so absorbed in the runes that he nearly jumped at her voice.  “Of course,” he replied, finding his composure.  “I’ve never even seen runes like these.  I was just trying to help Merrill mark them all down, in case the dragon comes back before she can finish.  It’s more interesting than standing around, and I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Auriel looked at him then, bright blue eyes shining in the light that filtered down through the canopy.  She hummed thoughtfully, “I do suppose you’re right.”  Her eyes quickly darted back to her work, and Malcolm returned to copying the runes.

In the end, Malcolm’s work was appreciated.  Merrill glanced between the glowing runes and his notes a few times before patting him on the shoulder.  “Thank you Malcolm, you’re always so thorough with things.”  She asked to see Marigold and Auriel’s progress and smiled.  “That’s an excellent start.  We should keep going.  We can always come back for more details once the dragon is gone.”

In the next room, El got the action she craved, and Malcolm found his third fascination – watching Auriel fight.  They stepped through a doorway and into a wide corridor, only to be assaulted by a pack of dragonlings.  Malcolm froze the nearest one, while Fenris and El charged ahead with their swords, and Hawke disappeared into a cloud of smoke, sinking her daggers into the unsuspecting creatures.  Malcolm had trained and fought with his family before, he knew what to expect from them, but he had never seen the trio of elves fight.  Merrill hung back near Malcolm, casting roots and vines to snare the dragonlings for the warriors’ waiting blades.  Marigold pushed forward with the warriors.  As a battlemage of clear prowess, her spells might as well have been swords, the way they tore into the beasts.  Auriel positioned herself between Merrill and Marigold, blue-feathered arrows flying from her bow with astonishing precision.  Each thrum of the bowstring was followed by a draconic shriek, and more than once, she beat Malcolm’s ice spell to its mark.  When one dragonling drew too close, she slung her bow across her chest and drew a knife in one fluid motion, leaping aside and slashing the dragonling across the flank.  Merrill seemed to anticipate her tactics, twisting roots around the creature so that Auriel could bury her blade in its neck.  The dragonling fell then, still tangled in roots.

When it was over, half a dozen dragonlings lay dead and even El was out of breath.  Marigold was the only one to request healing for a slash across her leg that hadn’t been enough to slow her down in the frenzy of battle.  As the glow of magic faded from Malcolm’s hands, he noticed Auriel crouched beside the dragonling she had slain, whispering with a lilting cadence that made Malcolm assume she was speaking Elvhen.  He wondered if it was an apology, a prayer, or something else.  He, too, felt remorse for killing the dragonlings.  It was the only safe way to deal with them, since they couldn’t be reasoned with, but that didn’t mean he relished in their deaths.

Merrill determined the cleared room would require far less time to document.  They would map the layout and make a few general sketches before moving on.

“Why don’t Fenris and I scout the next hall to see if anything big is lying in wait,” Hawke suggested.  “You know we’re both good at being quiet.”

“I can go with you,” El suggested, “Or… maybe Malcolm and I can watch the courtyard to see if the dragon comes back.”

Merrill nodded and waved them off, not even looking up from her notebook.

“Stick close enough that we can regroup if one of us finds something,” Fenris warned his children.

El snorted.  “Same goes for you two, but I think it’s Merrill we need to worry about.”

“Even she will notice a dragon landing or Fenris cursing,” Hawke chuckled, sauntering off through the doorway.

Smirking, El grabbed Malcolm by the arm and dragged him back into the courtyard.

“Won’t we _also_ notice if a dragon shows up?” Malcolm sighed.  “Why come back out here?”

El sat against a toppled pillar and crossed her arms.  “First, I do prefer fresh air,” she explained.  “Second, we need to _talk_ , Brother.”

He frowned and sat on a convenient chunk of rubble.  “What’s wrong?”

“Why does something have to be wrong?” El began, quirking an eyebrow at him.  “Nothing’s _wrong_ , Malcolm, but if you don’t stop staring at Auriel, even Merrill is going to catch on that you’re smitten.”

Had he really been so obvious?

El smirked.  “You should try talking to her more.  Maybe she’d be impressed to hear about all the fancy herbs you have growing in the garden back home.  Maybe she could be convinced to stop by and see them sometime.”

Malcolm sighed deeply and hung his head.  “El, I’ve told you, I have other things on my mind.”

“Tsk.  Like what?  Your patients back home?  Your books?  None of those things are here, now,” El scoffed.

He knew he should tell her… about Anders’s notes, about the lyrium poisoning, about the fraying threads of spells likely threatening their father’s life.  She was right after all, he’d let the ruins and the elven woman distract him.  It was more important to be ready, to be _able_ to heal Fenris than anything else at that moment.  He also knew that she deserved to know the truth, he _wanted_ her to know the truth, but when he opened his mouth, he couldn’t find the words.

“Why do you care?” he asked instead.

There was genuine concern in her eyes.  “I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” Malcolm grumbled.

“No, you’re more and more anxious lately.  You’re lost in your own head half the time and in books the other half.  Come on, Malcolm.  Everyone needs someone,” El reasoned.

He found himself suddenly angry with her for not understanding the secret he couldn’t tell her… or was he only angry at himself?  For once, his tongue was quicker than his thoughts.  “Everyone needs someone, hm?  How many someones do _you_ need, then?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Malcolm spat.  “Jack barely lasted a season, then that traveling merchant’s son, then the apprentice tanner, then however many others you never even bothered to tell me about, and now you’re sleeping with Rall.”

She scowled.  “How do you know about that?”

“Neither of you hide it well,” Malcolm muttered, already feeling his misplaced anger cooling.

She shrugged, quickly accepting that her secretive relationship was no secret.  “Well, what’s wrong with it?”

“He’s pined for you for years, but you were never interested before,” Malcolm explained.

“I wasn’t attracted to him before,” she said smoothly, as if that clarified everything.

“But you’re attracted _now_?”

“ _Venhedis_ , Malcolm, are you blind?  The man grew a beard and six inches in height.  He looked like a boy before.”  El sighed, but when she spoke again, her voice was softer.  “He’s always been a good friend.  He’s always made me laugh.  Maybe that familiarity helped me look past him for so long, but I suppose his persistence won out in the end.”

The look in her eyes made him pause.  She was sincere… but… “I was under the impression that Rall saw you as more than just someone to take to bed, El.”

“He’s told me as much…”

“And you?”

She frowned.  “I won’t stop him from following me.”

“Following you where?” Malcolm asked.

El was quiet for several moments, and when she did finally speak, she wouldn’t meet his eyes.  “Malcolm… after this… whatever this is… a mission?”

“A quest,” he offered quietly.

“After this _quest_ …  After we return home, I’m leaving,” she explained.  Her voice was steady, sure.

The silence that hung between them _hurt_.

“I know,” Malcolm finally whispered.  “I saw the letters from Uncle Varric and Isabela, instructions for where to find her ship.”

“I _hid_ those!”

Malcolm snorted, not quite a laugh.  “Not well enough.”

“Snoop,” she grumbled.

“Schemer,” he shot back, but his feigned insult only made her smile.

El let out a deep sigh and leaned back to look up at the sky.  “I’m excited.”

“I know.”  He was happy for her, he really was.  It was just…  “The sea fascinates you enough for you to leave home?  Your sword is good enough to guard cargo anywhere, El.  Why…”  He trailed off.  _Why a place I can’t follow?_

She looked at him, smiling sadly, as if she’d heard the words he couldn’t say.  “If it wasn’t the sea, it would be something else.  Home is quiet, and I’m not made for a quiet life, Malcolm.  Not yet, anyway.”

Few things were so obviously true.  “If Rall follows you,” Malcolm sighed, “his mother will kill me.”

El laughed.

“Do Mother and Father know?” he asked.

“I think they both suspect.  They… Malcolm I think they _want_ me to go.  They want me to stay too, but they understand.”

“They’re happy to see you happy, but they’ll miss you,” Malcolm explained.

El nodded.  After a long pause, she replied.  “I’ll miss you, too.”

“Is that why you’re so worried about me having _someone_ , because you’re leaving?”

“It would help,” she answered with a shrug, “but really, it just surprises me to see you so focused on Auriel.  There must be something really _there_ , then.  So, tell me honestly, what do you think of her?”

Malcolm studied the stones around his feet, unsure where to even begin.

“Come on, you’ve already admitted you think she’s attractive.”

Malcolm sighed.  “It’s more complex than that.  Yesterday, she…  Well, she made an impression.  She was curious enough to approach us, even if she was so guarded as to draw her bow, but then the idea of me mishandling the herbs put all that totally out of her mind.  I know what she said, and she may very well hold my humanness against me, but she… she seems too kind for that to be how she really feels.  Really, even after all that, I still find myself thinking about her.  I see her, and I’m simply drawn in.  It’s not just her appearance, either.  She has… a patient ferocity, a measured strength.  It’s how she carries herself, like there’s so much more to her than what anyone can see.  She keeps surprising me, and it makes me want to know, at every turn, what she’s really thinking.”

“You know,” El chuckled gently, “that’s how father sounds when he talks about mother.”

Malcolm leaned back against the stone and looked up through the trees.  “You think so?”

“I know so.”

El stood and nudged his boot with her own.  “Come on, let’s see if anyone else has found anything… and, Malcolm?”

“Hmn?”

“Whatever else is on your mind, you’re allowed to think of _her_ , too.”


	26. The Door and the Dragon

 

* * *

The Door and the Dragon

Age 18 (continued)

* * *

 

El sunk her blade into the dragonling’s shoulder, hooking under the scales, slicing deep.  Still the creature kept fighting.  She leapt aside from a lunge of teeth and found her prey suddenly knocked back by a blast of ice.  The beast stumbled against the spell, and El look advantage.  Cold seared her arm as she reached past the flare of magic and drove her blade into the dragonling for the killing blow.  She stood up, whirling around to survey the battlefield.  Her mother and father seemed to be handily dispatching the last dragonling, while the other elves were already easing out of their fighting stances.  And Malcolm…

“Give me your arm,” he demanded.

With a sigh, she passed her sword to her other hand and obliged. 

“You could have waited half a moment and not gotten yourself burned, you know.”  His hands were aglow with healing magic and El could feel the _minor_ injury already fading. 

El rolled her eyes.  “A dragonling’s teeth are more dangerous than a glancing blow from an ice spell, Malcolm.”

He glared at her, unable to deny her statement.  “Still, you should be more careful.  I won’t always be around to heal you.”

Those last few words stung, even if she knew he hadn’t entirely meant them to.

“I’ll do my best, Malcolm,” she replied, turning her attention to the door where the others were gathering. 

Malcolm pulled his hands away, also focused on the door.  “What are they doing?”

El flexed her arm experimentally before pulling out a cloth to wipe the gore from her sword.  “I don’t know.  They’re probably waiting for us.”

“No,” Malcolm whispered, “that door…”  He hurried off towards the rest of their party, and El darted after him.

“What, is it locked?” she asked as they drew near.

Malcolm frowned.  “If by _locked_ , you mean sealed with magic so powerful I can _see_ it, yes.  It’s a wonder the spells have stayed so strong after all these years.”

They watched as Merrill stood before the door, running her hands along the surface.  Suddenly, she stepped back and cast three spells in quick succession.  Ice, then lightning, then fire hit the door.  The door seemed to absorb the spells, but did not open.

Merrill tried again, casting more quickly.  Again, nothing happened.

“Oh dear, it really does have to be simultaneous,” Merrill said with a sigh.  She seemed downtrodden and began to pace the room, muttering to herself about delayed spells, only to pop up suddenly.  “Oh it’s so much simpler than that!  We have three mages!”

“Malcolm,” she asked, whirling to face him, “if I show you a spell, can you cast it just as Marigold and I cast the others?  You can even do the ice one.”

As amusing as El found her excitement, Malcolm seemed in no mood to laugh.  “I can certainly try,” he offered.

“Keeper,” Marigold warned, “he’s not an elf.  Will it really work?”

Merrill’s face fell in sudden understanding.  “Oh… like the first door…”

“What do you mean?” Malcolm asked.

“The door near the entrance only works if an elf is the one casting the spell.  I think that’s why the looters could never get in.  They do know to bring mages to these ruins sometimes, but it’s usually a human mage,” Merrill explained.  She went back to the door, pressing a hand to the carved wood and frowning.  “It won’t hurt to try… I don’t think…  Marigold, have a look.”

The young woman sighed, but complied.  After a moment she took her hand away.  “You know I’m no better at this than you are.  I can’t tell.  It will either work just fine or bring this whole place down on us.”

“Oh I don’t think it would do that,” Merrill chided her.  “Usually the door just won’t unlock, or it will send a monster after us.  It doesn’t do to bring your house down just because someone you didn’t expect knocked on the door.”

Hawke frowned.  “What sort of monster?”

Merrill tilted her head as she pondered aloud.  “Some sort of guardian, but I don’t think it would be as bad as a varterral.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Hawke grumbled sarcastically.  “I was looking forward to another one of those.”

“Well at least we have a large party that’s good at fighting.  We are prepared to fight a dragon, after all,” Merrill chirped.

Fenris glared at her.  “And you’ve said a varterral can defeat a dragon…”

“Oh, it’s more like they’re evenly matched,” Merrill mused.  “I really don’t think it will be a varterral.  Besides, if we don’t try, we can’t move forward anyway.”

Hawke sighed.  “I suppose not.”  She turned to Malcolm and shrugged.  “If the senior mage of this expedition insists it will _probably_ be okay…”

El watched as Malcolm stared thoughtfully at the door before finally approaching it.  He paused as he held out his hand, turning to Merrill for silent permission.

“Go ahead,” the Keeper told him.  “If the door is really so picky maybe just touching it will send a smaller monster…”

Fenris and Hawke exchanged glances and drew their blades, so El followed suit, standing at the ready.  Malcolm approached the door, placed his hand on it, and… nothing.  After a moment, he drew his hand away and pulled out his notebook, scribbling something on the page.

“I see what you mean about simultaneous,” Malcolm told Merrill as he wrote.  He turned the book towards her.  “Like this?”

She nodded enthusiastically.  “Oh, you’ve almost got it.  I think…”  She took the book and pen from him, making some small mark on the page.  “There… Like this.”

Malcolm studied the page for a moment, put the notebook away, and drew his staff.  Merrill looked to Marigold, who stood at the ready.  “Count of three?” the younger elf asked.

“Count of three,” Merrill confirmed, aiming her own staff at the door.  “One.”  The tip of each staff glowed.  “Two.”  Enough magic hummed in the air that even El could feel it.  “THREE!”  The mages unleashed their spells, a synchronized blast of ice, lightning, and fire.

El watched the flashes of magic hit the door and tensed, waiting for the rumble of some huge beast on its way to attack them.  Instead, the room fell quiet.

Merrill approached the door, placed her hand on one side, and pushed.  Silently, the door swung open.  “Oh.  Good.  Maybe there was nothing to worry about after all,” Merrill remarked.

Marigold shook her head.  “No, there was something in the spell that differentiated between elves and other kinds, I just couldn’t tell what.”

“Well, perhaps it was best two out of three?  Or it works as long as you’re friendly with elves?  Also, _Fenris_ is an elf.  Maybe the spell is happy as long as you’re half…” Merrill trailed off as she walked on through the doorway.

Malcolm followed her, tailed by Hawke and Fenris.  Marigold, meanwhile hung back, looking the door up and down.  Auriel stood close to her, and El could just make out their hushed conversation.

“You think this door only lets elves in?” Auriel asked.

Marigold looked at her.  “The door only cares about _spells_ , but yes, I was concerned it might not accept his.”

“I suppose that elf really is their father, then,” Auriel hummed.

“As they’ve always said,” Marigold muttered.

Auriel scowled at her.  “Well, saying something doesn’t make it true.”

“Sister,” Marigold began with a deep sigh, “surely you don’t mean to insinuate that their mother was unfaithful to her husband.”

“I… I never meant it like that,” Auriel stammered, blushing to the tips of her ears.

Marigold rolled her eyes.  “Watch what you say, then.  That’s how people would assume you meant it.”  She took Auriel by the arm, leading her though the door.  “Come now, let’s catch up.”  The mage glanced back over her shoulder, throwing El a pained and knowing look.

In that moment, El wondered if her quest to see Malcolm paired off had found an ally.  She rushed on through the doorway, stepping out into another wide courtyard, overgrown with lush vines and golden in the late afternoon sun.  Merrill and her parents were chatting away, rifling through their packs and pulling out the food they had stowed that morning, before dawn.  The mere concept of food made El’s stomach growl loudly.  She was hardly surprised.  They had been fighting dragonlings off and on all day, and adrenaline only carried one so far.

The whole party sat amongst the crumbled columns and ate, listening to Hawke and Merrill tell stories from their days in Kirkwall with frequent, grumbled corrections from Fenris anytime something was embellished.  Soon, however, Merrill pulled her notebook back out, declaring that she was ready to start checking the room over.  Auriel had already been idly sketching as they talked, and quickly rose to join her.  When Marigold moved to leave as well, El leapt up, muttered something about seeing if she could help, and followed after her.

“Eleuthera,” Marigold greeted her dully, barely pausing between scribbles in her notebook.

“Marigold.”

“Can I help you with something?”  Her voice was neither cold nor inviting, a truly neutral presence.  It gave El pause, and, for a moment, she wondered if she should just leave things be.  Malcolm would undoubtedly tell her to leave things be…

“If it’s about what Auriel said,” Marigold began, “please pay her idle thoughts no mind.  She says things carelessly, and only realizes how they might be heard by others long after.”

El flashed a grin.  “No apology necessary.  Malcolm tells me I used to be that way myself.”

“Well, then, perhaps imagine you never grew out of such habits, and find forgiveness where you can.”

“It’s alright, really… Though, I did actually have a question, about Auriel,” El explained.

Marigold’s silent look told her to continue.

“I know you trained alongside Malcolm a bit when we were younger, magic and things,” El began.  Marigold nodded and she continued.  “But I don’t remember Auriel visiting with you.  We’re strangers, really, and our chance meeting yesterday was… interesting.”

Marigold smirked.  “Oh, she told me.”

“Malcolm may have been a bit… defensive.  I don’t think he likes when people point arrows at me, honestly.  If the encounter upset Auriel at all… well… I want to vouch for Malcolm…”

“No need,” Marigold interrupted.  “Even Auriel knows Malcolm was in the right yesterday.  If anyone needs vouching for, it’s her.”

El started to realize more and more that there was no need to tiptoe around this woman.  She already saw enough, understood enough.  “Malcolm…” El sighed.  “He may well kill me for saying anything…”

“Then don’t,” Marigold said.  “You don’t have to.  He’s obvious enough on his own.  He’s sweet on Auriel, isn’t he?”

El nodded.

“Good.  She could use someone like him.”

“Oh?”  El wondered how a few weeks training together as children could make Marigold so sure she knew Malcolm well enough.

“You can learn quite a bit about someone from the feel of their magic.  For a general sense, you don’t even need contact, it’s palpable in the air around them while they cast spells.  But with direct contact?  Like someone healing you?  Magic can be more honest than words.”  Marigold turned to El, crossing her arms.  “He’s patient, your brother.  He’s gentle and thoughtful and clever, but he’s also terribly patient.”

El nodded. 

“Auriel, whether she knows it or not, whether she admits it or not, needs someone like that.  She needs someone who won’t jump to the worst conclusions when she says something strange.  She needs someone to hold her back when she gets too impulsive.  She needs someone who can be patient without trying, without it draining them.”

“Perhaps a lifetime as my brother has prepared him for this, then,” El laughed.  “I am glad you think well of him.  That makes this part easier…  See, Malcolm has something on his mind lately besides your sister.  He’s distracted, and he might need a bit of a nudge in the right direction.  There’s no point in some grand plot.  He’s too perceptive.  He’ll see through it.  I’d only like to keep watch for lucky opportunities.”

Marigold looked over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow.  “Are you quite sure they need any nudging?”

El turned to see Malcolm and Auriel, standing before some artwork carved in relief and set in the wall.  Malcolm had conjured a ball of veilfire, moving it back and forth as Auriel requested while she sketched in her notebook. 

“What are they doing?” El asked.

“Often carvings like that react differently to veilflame than ordinary light.  The Keeper insists on recording the way they appear under both conditions.  He’s actually doing _my_ job right now,” Marigold explained.

“Oh, well, sorry.”

Marigold shrugged.  “It’s not a task I enjoy.  He’s welcome to it.”                       

“I suppose you’re right about not needing the nudging,” El said, smirking and shaking her head.  “All the same, I’d ask you to keep it in mind.”

The elves, and Malcolm, continued their documentation for a while longer before Merrill was happy enough with their progress to move on.  She had just slipped her notebook back into her robes when she froze, turning to look up through the open courtyard roof.  It took another moment, but soon El’s human ears caught the sound as well.  It was faint at first, but grew into a thunderous rumble of heavy wingbeats.

_Dragon_.

The beast wheeled in the sky above them, letting out a shriek that shook the tiles under El’s feet.  It was massive, a beast that made wyverns look like mere pups.  El marveled at it, too stunned to draw her sword until the dragon roared again, and dove.

“Get ready!” Hawke shouted, daggers in hand.

Beside her, Fenris clutched his sword, the lyrium in his skin burning white against the darkening sky.  He glanced over his shoulder at El.  “Keep to the flanks to stay out of its range of fire.  A sword is no good to you melted.”

She swallowed hard and nodded, trying to focus on the familiar weight of her blade in her hand. 

The force of the dragon landing nearly knocked her off her feet, but she steadied herself, watching as the creature turned its scaled head, green eyes the size of saucers scanning over their party.  Three people with blades hardly seemed to faze it.

Then the magic came.

The glowing volley of spells soared across the courtyard into the dragon’s side, drawing a shriek along with the beast’s attention.  Hawke was already gone, seeming to slip out of sight, while Fenris charged towards the dragon’s shoulder.  El followed.  She knew from fighting other draconids that hitting scales would only dull her sword.  She needed to angle her blade, force it _under_ the scales, to make any real impact.

So she did. 

Over and over El struck the hulking creature, darting away every time the dragon turned towards her, rushing back in when the mages drew its attention.  More than once, the force of her blow loosened scales, and when she backed away, she watched an arrow sink in.  El smirked the first time.  She had wondered how an archer would be any use against a dragon.

They continued their exhausting dance, and at long last it seemed the dragon was flagging.  It was less focused and more frenzied, making more mistakes, wasting more time and energy reacting to each affront.  El sliced her sword across its haunch and the creature lashed its tail at her, exposing the flank on the other side to Hawke’s daggers.  Dodging the tail strike, El rushed around to the dragon’s left shoulder.  She found her father there, and when a pummel of stone made the dragon swing its head to the right, she watched Fenris dart forward.

He aimed to strike the beast in the base of its neck, to slice into a patch of missing scale there.  Such an assault could gravely wound the dragon, and El found herself watching Fenris’s greatsword arc through the air.  She expected it to be smooth and precise, unwavering in its path.  Instead she watched as Fenris’s grip on his blade suddenly weakened, as it simply slipped from his hands.  The sword spun and hit bluntly against the tender span of flesh.

All El could do was watch the blade skitter across the tiles, her father’s voice echoing in her mind.

_Never drop your sword_.


	27. The Swords and the Spell

 

* * *

The Swords and the Spell

Age 18 (continued)

* * *

 

Hawke leapt away from her latest assault on the dragon just in time to look up and see Fenris charging forward, only to falter and suddenly step back, _unarmed_.

The beast whirled and bellowed, lashing out with its claws in one swift motion.  It caught Fenris in the shoulder and tossed him against the nearest wall.  He staggered to his feet, but Hawke could see blood running down his arm, and a molten glow forming in the dragon’s mouth.

Hawke knew she’d never make it to Fenris in time, but she ran anyway, slashing her daggers across the dragon’s hide as she passed, hoping to distract it.  The creature didn’t waver.  It was entirely fixated on Fenris, and it was out for blood.  The dragon reared back, ready to unleash flames on its cornered prey, and Hawke was still too far away.

Suddenly, the dragon shrieked and tossed its head, shooting fire into the sky.  Hawke, still running, saw why.  El had buried her sword in the dragon’s neck, just above its shoulder.  Despite the beast’s thrashing, she clung to its scales with one hand and twisted her blade with the other.  Not a moment later, great spikes of ice hurtled towards the dragon.  While most simply shattered against its scales, a few hit places where the scales had already been torn off, puncturing the dragon’s flesh and drawing blood.  Roots encircled the dragon’s rear legs, dragging it backwards into more spells and arrows.

Amongst the chaos, Fenris slipped away, taking shelter behind a thick stone column.  Hawke followed, sliding in beside him.

“Fenris…”  She was already pulling a cloth from her belt, wrapping it tightly over his wounded arm.

“I will live, Hawke,” he growled, half-breathless.  “Go help El kill that thing.”

She glared at him.  “You’ll stay here then?”

“What else can I do without my sword?  I can hardly use my lyrium to tear the heart from a creature so large.”

“Stay here,” she warned.  _Maker, let him stay put_.

Hawke rushed to where El still held fast to the thrashing beast, her armor drenched in dragon blood.  With a flying leap, Hawke dragged her own daggers across the same stretch of vulnerable skin, catching one against a patch of scales.

“What about Father?” El shouted over the thunderous roars and the din of the spells.

“He’s safe,” Hawke replied.  “Let’s finish this dragon and then we’ll all be even safer.”

El gritted her teeth, “I’m trying.”

Hawke surveyed their situation.  The dragon seemed in its death throes, thrashing aimlessly instead of attacking.  There was also all that blood…

“Take your sword out, El,” Hawke ordered.

“But…” she protested.

Hawke smirked.  “Trust me, you’ll see.”

With a frustrated growl, El pulled her sword free, loosing a stream of blood.  The dragon let out one more fading shriek, collapsing just as Hawke and El jumped clear.

“I think you’ve finished the dragon, dear,” Hawke said.

She expected El to show some sign of excitement, of triumph.  Instead the girl just glanced at her bloody sword and frowned.  “Father is injured… I saw when the dragon hit him.  Mother, he…”

“He’ll be fine, El.”  Over her daughter’s shoulder, Hawke spied Malcolm rushing towards them, the three elves trailing behind him.  “Malcolm, your father…”

“I saw,” he muttered.  “Where is he?”

Hawke glanced behind the column, irritated to see the space empty, but not surprised.  “Not where I left him…”  She scanned the room and found Fenris near a pile of rubble, bending down with a wince to retrieve his sword.  She met his eyes with a glare, and he at least had the sense to look contrite.  “He’s over there.”

Fenris had been walking towards them, but stopped when it became obvious the whole group was instead rushing to meet him.  El reached him first, holding out her hand, muttering an offer to clean his sword as well as her own.  Surprisingly, Fenris let her have it.  Hawke, meanwhile, finally got a good look at his arm.  The dragon’s claws had knocked the armor off his shoulder and torn two long slashes into the bare skin of his arm.  Hawke was relieved that her makeshift bandage seemed to be stanching the worst of the bleeding.

Malcolm eyed the wound, too.  He opened his mouth to comment, but Fenris cut him off.

"Merrill can do it," Fenris said.

"Fenris..." Hawke whispered.

"Oh dear,” Merrill twittered.  “Have you hit your head too, Fenris?  You've forgotten that I'm frightfully bad at healing..."

"And that _our son_ is a healer, and a damn good one."  Hawke growled.

Fenris glared at her with a subtle shake of his head, a silent objection.

Hawke turned to the group.  "Clearly, we have something to discuss before we can proceed.  If you could give me a moment with my foolishly stubborn husband...”

The others began to shuffle off to the far end of the courtyard, but Malcolm lingered.  Hawke looked at him and he anxiously shifted his weight to his other foot.  "Just give us a moment, dear.  He won't bleed to death in the next ten minutes, will he?"

Malcolm shook his head and sighed.  Hawke knew it wasn't just the wound that was worrying the boy, but the not-so-cryptic papers he had found.  Malcolm turned to leave, and even though it seemed he hadn’t quite moved from earshot, Hawke sighed softly.  “What’s going on, Fenris?”

He sat down slowly on a chunk of rubble.  “My markings bother me.  That should hardly surprise you.”

“You dropped your sword.”

“The sword is heavy, and I am getting old,” Fenris rumbled.

Hawke rolled her eyes.  “So am I, and I'm old enough to know that's _not_ what's wrong here.”

Fenris merely glowered at her.

Hawke rubbed her temples.  His answers were true, but she could tell, they weren't everything.  "I've always valued your honesty, love, but I would like to clarify that this is one of those times where a lie by omission is, in fact, a lie.  Are you unwell?"

Fenris glanced down at his armored hands, opening and closing his fists.  "I..."  He sighed, weary.  "I don't know."

That had Hawke worrying about the papers, too.

"Then why avoid Malcolm?  He may be able to help.”

“No.”

“Fenris…”

He looked up at her, the fear in his green eyes as clear to her as his stubborn scowl.  His voice grew softer.  “If I _am_ unwell, it is because of my markings, likely some foul consequence of blood magic.  I won’t have Malcolm involved in that.”

“He’s not a child anymore, Fenris.”

“Good, because I’m not going to have him healing me just to spare his feelings.  Merrill can close this wound passably enough and then we can finish discussing this once we’re out of these ruins.”

For a moment, Hawke hesitated.  His reasoning was narrow-minded, but valid.  His solution was also fine… just…  “Did Anders ever speak to you, about lyrium, about your marks?”

“He mentioned several times that his demon liked them,” Fenris sighed. 

“Are you sure there was nothing else?  Nothing about the spells surrounding them?  About your health?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes.  “Once he spouted off nonsense about wanting to look at the spells and make them stronger.  It seemed at the time like another influence of his demon, and I told him he’d have one less limb if he tried such a thing.”

“He was trying to help you, Fenris.”

“What are you talking about?”

Hawke sighed.  “Malcolm found some of Anders’s old notes, and he showed them to me.  Apparently, back in Kirkwall, Anders noticed that the spells in your markings were starting to degrade.  He devised a way to repair them.  That’s likely what he meant when he approached you.”

“Nothing was wrong with the markings in Kirkwall.”

“Because he healed you without telling you.”

“ _Kaffas_.  That…  That sounds like him.”  Fenris’s scowl softened into a contemplative frown.  “Malcolm knows this?”

“Yes.  He brought the notes to me just before we left home, and I was going to address it with you after this trip.  I assumed there was no hurry, that you were well… and that you would tell me if you weren’t.”  She failed to hide the disappointment in her voice.

Fenris pulled off one gauntlet, lighting his lyrium briefly as he flexed his fingers.  Hawke didn’t miss the way they trembled slightly.  “Numbness and this quaking…  It came on gradually… and there was no pain.  Perhaps, though, that is the unsettling part,” Fenris admitted.

“All the more reason to have Malcolm monitor…”

“I will not saddle him with that chore.”

Hawke rolled her eyes.  “He’s a healer, that’s what he’s good at, that’s what he likes to do.”

“Then he should be thinking about how he wants to go about the rest of his life healing people, not being stuck worrying about me.”

“It’s too late.  Malcolm is already aware, and you _know_ he’s not the sort to just leave things.  Besides, whatever Anders did lasted for years.  It won’t hurt to have Malcolm take a look.”

Fenris shook his head.  “These dragon-infested ruins are hardly the place to deal with this.  If it’s as you say, half a day won’t matter.  Let Merrill heal my arm and we can worry about the rest later.”

There would be no swaying him, then.

Hawke sighed and waved the others over.  El was absorbed in cleaning the swords, and Auriel was busy pulling arrows from the dead dragon, but Malcolm rushed forward and the two elven mages weren’t far behind.  “Can you heal him, Merrill?”

The Keeper smiled.  “No.”

Fenris gritted his teeth.  “Why not?”

“It would be silly.  Malcolm will do much better.”

“I am not asking Malcolm, I’m asking you,” Fenris grumbled.  When Merrill shook her head, he nodded towards Marigold.  “Your apprentice, then?”

Merrill laughed and Marigold smirked.  “Oh, I’m even worse than her,” the young woman insisted.  “My magic is better at tearing than mending.”

Hawke watched Fenris glare at the elves as if they were the ones who had shredded his arm into a bloody mess.  _There goes your plan, dear_.  She wondered if El might have better luck convincing him, but the girl was clearly rattled if she felt that cleaning swords was the more pressing task.  Besides, the situation shouldn’t have required convincing.  Malcolm _was_ the healer in the party.

Suddenly, the boy spoke up.  “I don’t have to read your injuries with magic.  I could just have a closer look.  After that, I might not even need to apply magic directly.  I might be able to heal it passively.”  Fenris’s tension eased a touch at Malcolm’s cautious voice.  “Father, we can focus on your injuries for now and talk about the rest later.”

“Fine.”  Fenris’s reply was barely more than a whisper.

Merrill patted Malcolm on the shoulder and then ushered Marigold away, leaving Hawke to deal with the broody half of her family.

“Armor off,” Malcolm ordered quietly.  Fenris stripped off his other gauntlet and then reached across his chest to unbuckle the breastplate and hissed in pain.  “Maybe Mother can…”  Hawke didn’t need to be asked.  She was already at Fenris’s side, removing straps with familiar ease.  She set a hand on his knee reassuringly, and he looked at her, resigned and anxious.  Hawke smiled softly in return.  _It will be fine, Fenris_.  Hawke set the armor aside and turned back to watch Malcolm work.  It was _work_ , too.  He kept his voice calm, professional… _detached_.

“Look straight ahead…”  Malcolm lit a small wisp of veilflame and trailed it back and forth in front of Fenris’s face.  “Now follow the light.”  Fenris complied.

“Well,” Malcolm admitted, “you didn’t hit your head, at least not badly.  Now, take a deep breath.”

Fenris inhaled fully, but winced as he did so.

“Your ribs are bruised, maybe cracked, but your lungs are okay.”  Malcolm sighed.  “I can heal that just with passive magic.”  He moved to Fenris’s side.  “Now for your arm…”  He reached for the bandage, but paused, waiting for a sullen nod from Fenris before untying it.  Blood ran from the wound once more, but not as quickly as before.  Malcolm held his veilflame up to see the wound better in the dim twilight of the courtyard, then pulled back with a sigh.  “The cuts are clean, and not as deep as I thought.  Passive healing will work on that too, I just have to rinse them out.”  He pulled a canteen and a clean cloth from his robes, pouring water over the wounds and wiping away the dirt.  “This will sting,” Malcolm warned, uncorking a small flask and pouring that on too.  Fenris flinched, but didn’t make a sound.

Hawke was torn between admiring Malcolm’s thorough expertise and lamenting the coldness of it all.  She’d seen Malcolm heal his sister without reining in his emotions, his frustration with her carelessness as plain as his brotherly affection.  She’d seen him heal the townsfolk while offering warm words and a reassuring smile.  Shouldn’t his own father be shown the same care?  Instead Malcolm was blunt, clinical, and Fenris couldn’t even look at him.  Hawke signed.  It was probably exactly what Fenris needed, to forget that the one healing him was his own son.

Malcolm took a step back and sat down on a chunk of fallen column.  “I’ll start the spell.  Just stay sitting until it’s done, alright?”

Fenris nodded.

Malcolm took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, the space around them filled with a soft glow.  Hawke felt the magic, light and restorative, like a fresh breeze on a spring day.  She stood close enough that it worked into her own sore muscles, alleviating the aches and stiffness she would have otherwise felt more obviously than she cared to admit.  She considered calling the others over, but decided against it.  Fenris wouldn’t appreciate an audience, the three elven women weren’t as likely to be beaten up after ranged combat, and Malcolm would undoubtedly heal El later.

After a few minutes, the gashes on Fenris’s arm were closed and Malcolm’s spell began to dissipate.  “How do you feel?” Malcolm asked.

“It’s healed,” Fenris replied quietly, standing to grab his armor, the motion no longer hindered by pain.  “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Malcolm answered.  He stood too, stepping closer to Fenris.  “But, Father, we _will_ have to talk.”

“Of course,” Fenris responded.

 

* * *

 

Fenris insisted that they push onward, completing the Dalish clan’s pointless survey of the ruins.  In the end there were only a few more rooms, with a few more dragonlings, and the group was back in camp by midnight.  The old elf had a simple meal waiting for them, and another took the haunches of dragonling meat they had brought back, promising a hearty breakfast.  Fenris ate because he knew he needed to, but in truth, his stomach was in knots.  He emptied his bowl, and, while the others seemed distracted by Merrill’s descriptions of the ruins, tried to slink off to his tent unnoticed.

He was unsuccessful. 

“Fenris…” Hawke warned, catching his elbow.

“Am I not allowed sleep?” he spat in reply.  She let his arm go, but he hated himself for the look of pain in her eyes.

That night, Fenris did not sleep well.  Dreams of Tevinter, of Danarius and the bloody ritual that earned him his markings plagued him.  He finally gave up on sleep when the last nightmare woke him just after dawn.  He rolled over and stared at the fabric of the tent above him, trying to push the dream from his mind.  His attempts were ineffective until Hawke slid her arms around him.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

“Good morning.”

“Bad dreams?” Hawke asked.  There was no pity in her voice.  Even with the quiet lives they now led, both of them occasionally found their nights hounded by the demons of their past.  Just as often it was Fenris who held _her_ when she woke, softly reminding her that the children were safe, that he was safe, that she hadn’t failed them, not ever.

“I’ve had better,” he sighed, turning to kiss her on the forehead.

She nodded, but tightened her grip on him.  “Fenris…”

“I know.  I will speak to Malcolm,” he told her.

“Will you let him heal you?”

Fenris pulled away just enough to look at her.  “Not if it involves blood magic.”

“Fenris, he wouldn’t…”

“You can’t know that,” he muttered.  “He certainly wouldn’t want to, he might not even intend to, but if he needed to, in order to help one of us?”

Hawke paused, then shook her head.  “I still think there are some lines he wouldn’t cross,” Hawke answered, and Fenris wondered if her hesitation meant she was thinking of her own father.

Fenris sighed and kissed her softly.  “If I was in such a position, I would,” he whispered.  “I think, though, that he is stronger than I am…”

Hawke smiled.  She knew him well enough to know she’d already won.  “You set a high bar, love,” she said, taking his hand.  When he noticed that his fingers were trembling he tried to pull it away, but she only held on more tightly.  “Talk to him.  This may all be far less difficult than you think.”

She finally let his hand go and Fenris sat up, smirking at her.  “You worry too much, Hawke.  Remember, our son is also more stubborn than I am.”

“Another very, very high bar,” Hawke snickered.


	28. The Father and the Son

 

* * *

The Father and the Son

Age 18 (continued)

* * *

 

Malcolm had lain awake in his tent for most of the night, torn between the realization that he needed sleep if he was to be of much use healing anyone and the fears rumbling through his mind.  He had eavesdropped on some of his parents’ conversation in those ruins, and he had memorized the symptoms of lyrium poisoning.  Malcolm couldn’t know without using his magic, but he couldn’t help drawing the obvious conclusion.  _Numbness and this quaking…  It came on gradually…_

When Malcolm opened his eyes, it was well past dawn.  _No wonder, it was nearly dawn when you finally drifted off_ , he told himself.  Still, he was surprised what little sleep he’d gotten hadn’t been hounded by demons.  He knew they must be able to taste it on him, the anxiety, the dread, the weary, hopeful wanting to _do_ something.  He’d make a fine mage snack for them if what they offered wasn’t the very thing he couldn’t accept.  Merrill must have kept her clan’s camp warded, or else their forest location was ordinarily so devoid of people that demons chose to hunt elsewhere.

It was something to wonder about, a convenient distraction for Malcolm as he dressed.  He left his tent and only took a few steps before he could smell breakfast cooking and hear chatter and laughter.  Everyone had gathered in the center of the Dalish camp, passing around plates of biscuits, fruit, and what Malcolm could only assume was the dragonling meat.  Merrill saw him coming and waved enthusiastically, scooting down the split log that served as a bench to make room for him between Hawke and herself.

“I do hope you slept well, Malcolm,” Merrill said.  “I always put up extra wards after a busy day.  It makes for a more restful night.”

Across from Hawke, Fenris snorted.

“Well, for mages anyway,” Merrill amended.  “It doesn’t help with ordinary dreams, only demons.”

“I slept well,” Malcolm replied.  “Thank you.”

Merrill beamed, Hawke snickered, El barely looked up from her plate, and Fenris…  “Your mother tells me you have some papers I might find interesting,” he mentioned between bites.  “I would like to see them after breakfast.”  Malcolm was thrown by the casualness of it, as if the papers were merely posts on the village message board.

“I… Yes, they’re in my tent,” Malcolm explained.

Fenris nodded and turned back to his food.

“Oh, you can use our meeting tent if you’d like,” Merrill twittered.  “I know your tent is quite small, Malcolm.  You wouldn’t even be able to sit down together in there I don’t think.”

Malcolm expected his father to protest, but instead he shrugged and took another bite of biscuit.

“Wonderful!  I know you’ll be more comfortable in there.  Ithelan designed the tent, and Amara helped with the fabric and Sorenil with the chairs.  We needed a place for the whole clan to sit, even if the weather wasn’t nice like it is today…

Malcolm lost track of her words, picking at his plate and worrying about lyrium.

When breakfast was finally over, Malcolm brought his pack to the meeting tent.  Fenris was already inside, pacing back and forth between the chairs.

“Father…” Malcolm began.

Fenris shook his head and held out his hand.  “I’ll read this ancient nonsense first, then we can talk.  It’s only fair I have the same information as you do.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Malcolm admitted, unfolding the pages and handing them to Fenris.  While Fenris sat to read them, Malcolm remained standing, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other. 

He watched the emotions play on his father’s face as he read.  Fenris rolled his eyes first, then scowled.  His frown deepened steadily until he reached the final page.  His fingers clutched the paper, and Malcolm was sure he’d crumple the pages in his rage, but instead he dropped them onto the chair beside him with a sigh.  “Fool Mage…”  Fenris glanced up, as if startled.  “Not you,” he assured Malcolm, “ _him_.”

Under different circumstances, Malcolm might have laughed.

“The ends always justified the means for him,” Fenris grumbled.

“But Anders… he helped you,” Malcolm reminded him.

Fenris nodded reluctantly.  “He did, but even he admitted his methods were wrong… though I’m sure I gave him little choice.”  He sighed.  “I know everyone assumed I hated him, but I didn’t.  We fought, yes.  Our minds stood on opposite sides of a debate with no true answer, and our hearts chased the same woman, but never did we doubt each other on the battlefield.  I lent my sword when the Templars paraded his tranquil friend before him, and he lent his staff when Danarius came for me.  He was a good man, underneath the danger of him.  Abomination though he was, if all mages had his conviction I might not have so feared his dreams.

“None of that matters anymore, does it?”  Fenris asked as he stood and handed the papers back to Malcolm.

“What matters is healing you,” Malcolm answered.

“Malcolm…”

The words came from Malcom in a rush, the nagging doubt he couldn’t shake.  “I know magic isn’t something you’re comfortable with, but I also know that you’ve never seemed to not trust _me_ … so… what is it?  Why won’t you let me heal you?”

Malcolm expected a quick and heated answer from his father, but instead Fenris looked solemn.  “For a long time I felt that magic could only taint, that there was nothing it could touch that it wouldn’t spoil.  When I was angry enough, fearful enough, this even included your mother.  It always included myself,” Fenris explained.  Malcolm felt his stomach twist into knots.  He knew magic was a sore spot in his father’s past, but Malcolm had always assumed his father accepted _him_.  Was he wrong?  Had Fenris always…

“Then you and your sister were born,” Fenris continued.  “You were tiny, helpless things, and though I knew it was perfectly likely you were both mages, I _loved_ you, without question.  The moment I held you, I was certain, for the first time in my life, that magic couldn’t all be bad.  Even when you turned out to be a mage, I wasn’t afraid of what that would mean.  You were my son, and nothing mattered more than that.”  Malcolm felt his tension ease.  He’d been waiting for some grand and terrible revelation, and instead there was only confirmation of what he had always felt.  Being a mage did not mean his father cared for him any less.

Fenris frowned, dropping his voice just short of a growl.  “None of that changes the fact that my markings _are_ tainted.  They were made by an evil man with evil magic for an evil purpose.  I am not clean, either.  I have used their power for unspeakable deeds, and the blood of innocents is on my hands as much as it is in the markings.”  Fenris’s voice softened a touch.  “I’m not afraid of you or your magic, Malcolm, but I’m afraid to become the lost cause that leads you to justify using dangerous means.”

“Father, I wouldn’t…”

Fenris silenced him with a glare.  “I know you wouldn’t want to use blood magic, but I need to be certain.  I need you to promise me, not just that you wouldn’t use blood magic, but that you _won’t_.”

“I won’t, I swear it,” Malcolm replied.

“Even if that is the only way to heal me?  Even if it means my death?”

Malcolm swallowed hard, his father’s words echoing his deepest fear.  “But it shouldn’t come to that…”

“You can’t know that,” Fenris said.  “No matter what these papers say, you can’t know what other spells have broken down over the years or how far beyond repair things might be.  You can’t know, and I can’t risk your safety, Malcolm.  I’ve seen what happens when people take such risks, and my life is not worth seeing that happen to you.”

How many abominations, monstrous and crazed, had met their end at the edge of his father’s sword?  One would have been enough, but Malcolm knew the number was much higher.  “I swear, Father, I will not use blood magic.”

Fenris gave a silent nod.

“You should know, that it’s a choice I’ve made again and again, in the Fade,” Malcolm whispered.  “That is what fear demons tempt me with… a dying loved one who I cannot heal, and a knife in my hand.  I can refuse them because you and Mother have taught me those risks.”

“You’re a stronger man than I am, then,” Fenris sighed.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow.  “But you’re not a mage…”

“Your mother has taken me to strange places, Malcolm,” Fenris explained, the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

“You would do well to keep yourself in good health, then,” Malcolm pointed out.  “You never know where she will take you next.”

Fenris did smile openly at that.  “You are all to blame.  First Qarinus, and now this dragon-infested ruin.  Where will we vacation next year, I wonder?  The Hissing Wastes?”

“If you want to go anywhere, I need to see to your health,” Malcolm scolded.

“Very well,” Fenris relented, sitting down in the nearest chair.  “What do I need to do?”

Malcolm sat in the chair beside him.  “Just give me your hand, relax, and don’t hold your breath.”

“Why would I…”

“I’ve had a patient faint on me, so now that is a standard part of my instructions,” Malcolm explained.  He waited for his father to shrug and nod before taking his hand.  Gathering his magic, Malcolm closed his eyes, and delved inside.

He found his magic wanted to follow the lines of dormant lyrium, and so Malcolm let it.  The markings were carved like a roadway, reaching even to the tips of Fenris’s fingers.  Malcolm’s magic spread along them, reading flesh and blood, nerve and bone.  It only took a moment, and Malcolm pulled back.

“Other than lyrium poisoning and its effects, you are remarkably healthy for a man your age,” Malcolm told Fenris.

Fenris nodded, looking down at his hands as he opened and closed them.  They trembled when he held them still.  “And lyrium poisoning causes this?”

“It can cause several different problems, including hallucinations, but you’re lucky.  Your condition hasn’t progressed that far,” Malcolm replied.  “You do have nerve damage, and I hope magical healing will offer at least some recovery.  The most important thing, though, is to cleanse the lyrium from your blood.  That will take a tonic, just as Anders administered before.  You will feel wretched for a few days, but…”

“And the spells?” Fenris asked.

“They’re too difficult to read with the markings dormant.  I wanted to check your health first, but to check the spells, I think it will be just as Anders described.  You’ll have to light the lyrium.”

Fenris tensed.  Malcolm had sworn not to put himself at risk with blood magic, but that obviously wasn’t enough.  His father was still hesitant.

“I know for you, they are a curse,” Malcolm said softly,” forced on you in the worst possible way.  But for me, they are a part of my father that has always been there.  I used to think they _sang_ , before I understood what magic felt like.  However terrible the markings are, in the moment I needed it most, when all the other magic around me seemed like a deafening roar, that song was a comfort, a reassurance that _you_ were there.”  He held out his hand, and continued.  “Please, Father, let me see the spells.  They need to be fixed, because you can’t die just yet.  Our family still needs you.  _I_ still need you.”  Malcolm smirked.  “I haven’t yet seen thirty summers, after all.”

“You remember that,” Fenris muttered, scowling.  Malcolm was glad he hadn’t missed the reference to an argument they’d had some five years before.

“I remember a good many things, Father,” Malcolm replied.

“Well, I am glad you grew out of that rebellious phase,” Fenris grumbled, “but you are right.  I am your father, and if I tell you to stop, you _will_ stop.”

“You do know that spells are not _contagious_ , don’t you?” Malcolm teased, feeling the tension between them lifting.

“Hush,” Fenris scolded, taking Malcolm’s hand.  “No blood magic.”

“No blood magic,” Malcolm agreed, and suddenly the tent was filled with the blue-white glow of Fenris’s lyrium.  Not wanting to waste a moment of his father’s cooperation, Malcolm reached out with his magic.  It was an easy thing to do.  If the dormant lyrium had coaxed his magic to follow it, the active lyrium all but dragged it.  The result was just as Anders had written in the notes.  Everything was so much clearer.

Lighting the markings seemed to stimulate a whole array of other spells, extending out in branching lines, not just across Fenris’s skin, but into his very bones.  There wasn’t an inch of his body that wasn’t laced with spells.  Malcolm knew he shouldn’t have been surprised.  His father could phase his whole body, not just the markings.  The spells that buried so deep seemed intact and felt… dark, sinister, wrong.  They were blood magic, Malcolm knew.  It took little motivation to turn his attention away from them.  The spells he needed to repair lay just between the lyrium and Fenris’s skin, a complex weave of barrier spells meant to keep the lyrium contained.

Malcolm pulled back his magic, let his father’s hand go, and let out a long, soft sigh.

Fenris put a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder.  “If you…  If the spells are beyond repair, do not feel…”

“It’s not as dire as that,” Malcolm interrupted with a faint smile.  “Make no mistake, the spells need to be repaired immediately, but it’s not as bad as I feared.  Really, having seen the spells now, it could be so much worse.”

Fenris stiffened.  “And the blood magic?”

“Those spells seem nearly indelible.  Supposedly that’s one of the _benefits_ of blood magic.  It binds to flesh in a way that ordinary magic cannot.  I assume it’s the blood magic that reacts with the lyrium to give you your abilities.  The magic that has faded is a set of barrier spells to keep the lyrium confined.  The spells are complex, but not related to dark arts outside of the fact that they make the markings possible.

“The complexity means it will take time.  I can’t just throw up a barrier and be done.  I have to re-weave my own spells into the existing ones.  It’s less like patching a hole in a shirt and more like knitting the frayed edges back together.”

Fenris frowned.  “Remember, I do not want you endangering yourself in any way.”

Malcolm’s smile brightened.  “It will only cost me effort and time that I’d already be spending on one spell or another.  Dorian will understand if I take a few weeks off from my lessons.”

“Weeks…”

“It took Anders more than a year by the looks of it, and he was far more experienced than I am.  I do have the advantage of a willing patient…”  Malcolm shot Fenris a pointed look.  “At least I hope I do.”

Fenris sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “You do.”

A heavy weight dropped from Malcolm’s chest.

“Well, your mother and sister are undoubtedly waiting.  We shouldn’t keep them any longer,” Fenris explained as he stood to leave the tent.

Malcolm caught his arm.  “Wait.  Father…  If there’s ever something wrong, not just this, but _anything_ that I can help with, please just tell me.”

Fenris’s initial shock seemed to fade to something soft, though unreadable.

“It frightens me to think how you might have suffered if I hadn’t found those notes,” Malcolm continued.  “I know no one lives forever, but I just can’t help but think that if anyone deserves just a little more time to be happy, it’s you.”

Fenris sighed before slipping into a faint smile.  He ruffled Malcolm’s hair, an awkward thing now that Malcolm was taller than him, but still just as comforting.  “You’re a good boy,” Fenris said softly, “and a fine young man.  My first thought will always be to keep you safe, but I’ll remember what you said, and try to keep in mind that your mother isn’t the only one worrying after me.”

Malcolm nodded and followed his father out of the tent.

They found Hawke sitting on a convenient stump.  Malcolm noticed she had a perfect view of the tent while still being out of earshot. 

“So…”  She looked at Fenris, one eyebrow raised.  “Are you going to be reasonable or am I going to have to get involved?”

Fenris rolled his eyes.  “I will be a model patient.”

Hawke smiled as she stood to kiss Fenris on the cheek.  “I’m glad.”

“Where’s El?” Malcolm asked.

“She couldn’t bear sitting still.  She said you’d know where to find her,” Hawke explained.

Malcolm had a guess.

After a bit of searching, he found El down by the stream, just beyond the edge of the Dalish camp, dangling her feet in the water.

“Mother said you couldn’t sit still, and here you are, sitting,” Malcolm muttered.

El jumped to her feet.  “Will Father be alright?”

“I think so,” he replied.  “I’ll have to…” he fell silent as she wrapped him in a tight hug,

“I was afraid,” she admitted softly.

Malcolm hugged her back just as tightly.  “Me too.”

After a moment she sighed and let her arms go slack, simply resting her forehead against him.  “Does he need any more convincing or is he cooperating?  Because if he’s being stubborn…”

“It’s fine, El.”

She let out another long sigh.  “Good.”  She stepped back enough to look at him.  “If he’s cooperating that means you don’t have to do blood magic.”

Malcolm shook his head.  “No, the part I need to fix isn’t blood magic… but it’s there…”

“How can you tell?”

“How can you tell when something tastes bitter rather than sweet, when something sounds loud instead of soft, or when one thing is green and another is red?  The feeling of magic is a sense to me, like any other, and the blood magic spells, they feel different… wrong.”

“Alright, so spells…”  She crossed her arms and looked thoughtful.  “Obviously, Mother and I won’t be much help there.  Is there anything else?”

“A chelation tonic,” Malcolm explained.  “I’ll need to brew the tonic and let it cleanse the lyrium from his blood as soon as possible.  That will delay any further damage, and might reverse some of what has been done.  Then I need to repair the spells… that will take time… perhaps that can wait until we’re home.”  He looked at her sternly.  “I can’t promise to fix any of his current symptoms.”

“That hardly matters, Malcolm.  I was afraid he’d drop dead before tomorrow…”

“That was never the issue,” Malcolm clarified, surprised by how far her imagination had taken her.

“That’s still what I was afraid of.”  She tossed him an accusatory glare.  “Some of us didn’t have the benefit of musty old papers that told us exactly what was wrong with him.”

Malcolm sighed.  “Mother advised me to keep it to myself…”

“I can imagine,” El admitted, her face softening.  “I don’t blame you… just… Father’s very first lesson was to never drop my sword.  Seeing his slip from his fingers just like that?  It was like watching Uncle Varric lose his words, or Dorian lose his magic, all in one terrifying, dangerous moment.  Yes, people get old and frail, but not when you just watched them swing their sword about like normal not a moment before.”

Malcolm decided not to list the health conditions that _could_ cause sudden loss of ability.  He knew what she meant.  “It wasn’t sudden for him.  He was simply able to compensate…”

“Until he wasn’t,” El sighed.

“Until he wasn’t,” Malcolm agreed.

“Still, knowing what’s wrong, and that you’ll help him,” El continued, “you have to understand what a relief that is.”

“I will do everything I can, but I still worry it won’t be enough, El.  I don’t think I’m as powerful as Anders was, and I’m certainly not as experienced,” Malcolm explained.

El rolled her eyes.  “This is hardly the time for self-deprecation.  No one is going to try as hard to help Father as you are, and even if the task is too much for you alone, that won’t be the end.  Between you and Dorian and whatever other contacts Mother and Uncle Varric can come up with, _someone_ will be able to help.  I’m not afraid for him anymore, Malcolm.”

“You really think he’d let Dorian anywhere near him with a spell?” Malcolm muttered.

El chuckled.  “They get on better than you think.  He wouldn’t like it, but he would surrender after just a bit of prodding from Mother or me.”

“It took more than _a bit of prodding_ from _me_ ,” Malcolm scoffed.

El raised an eyebrow.

“I know it’s not the same thing, that he worries after us more than himself, that he worries after _me_ and my magic,” Malcolm explained.  “I _know_.”

El hugged him again.  “Well, _I_ don’t worry about your magic, and I’m not worried about Father anymore either.”  She pulled away and started to put her boots back on.  “What do you need for this tonic?”

“I brought everything with me…” Malcolm began.

“Of course you did,” El laughed.

Malcolm rolled his eyes.  “I brought everything except fresh arbor blessing vine.  I have some dried, but the preparation requires time to steep and is far less potent.  Fresh will be better and Merrill’s clan should know where to find some around here.”

“Oh yes, I bet Auriel can help you,” El teased.

Malcolm scowled.  “You may feel perfectly content, but I’m still concerned about Father.  This is hardly the time…”

El slapped him on the back.  “I know, I know.  You’re ever the professional, dear Brother.”

“Yes, because some of us still have work to do and can’t afford to be so flippant,” he muttered.

El offered him a warm smile.  “I can only relax like this because I trust you, Malcolm.”

He let out a resigned sigh.  “Yeah, I know.”

“You’d do well to trust yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes when I write, a certain song really sticks with a certain character, relationship, or scene in my writing. For this chapter, and really, this whole story arc, that song is “Fade In / Fade Out” by Nothing More. The song didn’t mean anything special to me at first, but at some point it really became associated in my mind with Malcolm and Fenris. Some of the parts of this arc have been rolling around in my head almost since I started this fic, so the song has gotten a lot of time on my playlist.


	29. The Archer and the Vines

 

* * *

The Archer and the Vines

Age 18 (continued)

* * *

 

While El had spoken with Malcolm, their parents had concluded that they needed to explain the situation to Merrill.  They were her guests, after all, and as much as Fenris scoffed at the concept, they were also her friends.  Merrill had likely been worried about him, too.

El followed her family as they looked for Merrill, finding her pouring over sketches of the Elvhen ruins with Marigold.  It didn’t take long for Hawke and Malcom to lay their plans out for the Keeper.

“Oh dear… Lyrium… That sounds rather serious, Fenris,” Merrill said.

Fenris crossed his arms and opened his mouth to object, but Hawke beat him to it.  “I’m sure he’ll recover just fine, if he does as Malcolm advises.”  She grinned at him and Fenris rolled his eyes in return.

“You’re welcome to stay…” Merrill began, but Fenris cut her off.

“Just a few days to deal with this tonic,” he insisted.

Merrill tilted her head and looked at him.  “Oh Fenris, you really are always welcome here.  We have plenty to eat, after all.  If you’re tired of sleeping in your tent, we have some nice cots.  I’d be grumpy too if I had to sleep on the floor.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my tent, there’s just no reason to linger here,” Fenris sighed.

“Maker… _I’ll_ take a cot,” Hawke muttered, and El had to stifle a giggle.

“The tonic is the more pressing issue, the rest can wait until we’re home,” Malcolm explained.  “I do need your help with the recipe, though.  I have most of what I need, but some fresh arbor blessing vine would speed the process.”

El grinned, recognizing her chance.  “Perhaps Auriel could show him where you last saw some?”

Malcolm turned to glare at her.

“Oh yes,” Merrill agreed.  “It was half a day’s walk from here, up in some hills to the east.  She’ll know just where it was.”

“I only need general directions,” Malcolm grumbled.  “I know the sorts of places it likes to grow.”

Marigold glared at him.  “Don’t be stupid.  Auriel knows exactly where to look.  It will save you time.”

“Fine,” Malcolm relented, “but I’m leaving immediately, so she needs to be ready.”

El exchanged a look with Marigold and sighed.  “It’s nearly noon, Malcolm.  Will you even have time to find the stuff before you’re stumbling around in the dark?”

“I’ll make camp there for the night,” Malcolm explained.  “It will still be faster than waiting to leave until morning.”  He stalked off to go pack his things, leaving no room for further argument.

Merrill giggled.  “He’s very determined.  You know, it reminds me of the time that Varric…”  As she drew Hawke and Fenris into a story from the past, Marigold took El aside.

“Determined indeed…” the mage muttered.  “Are you sure this is wise?  He doesn’t seem in the mood for romance.”

“The hike will help him clear his head,” El reasoned.  “Besides, who can resist a lovely night under the stars?”

Marigold snorted.  “Auriel.”

“Fair enough,” El sighed.  “Still, it should be better than nothing.  We’ll just have to send them on their way and hope for the best.”

 

* * *

 

After Auriel had pointed him in the direction of their objective, Malcolm had shouldered his pack and set off at a punishing pace.  The elf simply followed, keeping up without uttering a single complaint.  In fact, after an hour, he realized they hadn’t spoken at all.

“How are we doing?” Malcolm asked tentatively.

Auriel shrugged.  “We’re still on the right path.”

“Good…  I… Thank you for agreeing to come with, to show me the way,” Malcolm told her.

“It’s no trouble,” Auriel answered.

They fell into silence again for a few moments before Auriel broke it with a huff.  “Yesterday your father wouldn’t even let you heal him.  This morning, I’m told, he needed convincing to stay here long enough to drink this tonic you are making.  If he doesn’t want to be healed, why are you doing this?”

Malcolm stopped mid-stride to stare at her.  “He’s my _father_.”  He had expected some kind of appreciation for what that meant, but instead she folded her arms and stared right back at him. 

“I don’t remember having a father, so that hardly explains things for me.  Do you mean that you’re doing this out of obligation to the blood ties between you?” Auriel asked.

“It’s not obligation,” Malcolm clarified.  “I care about him.  I _want_ to see him well, no matter how reluctant he is for my help.  He’s my family,” Malcolm continued.  “Wouldn’t you do the same for the members of your clan, even if you aren’t related by blood?”

Auriel mulled over the thought for a moment.  “None of them have ever refused a potion I made to for them.  That would be foolish.  Besides, what could I do, force it upon them?  Is that what you would do?”

Malcolm shook his head and started walking again, slower than before.  “No, that… that would be wrong.  It’s not that he doesn’t want to be healed.  It’s that he’s concerned about involving magic.  Magic was used to hurt him in the past, and he still sees it as something dangerous.  He was afraid...”

“That’s absurd.”  Auriel walked at his side, scowling and shaking her head.  “You just said you care for him.  Why would you hurt him?”

“I wouldn’t, and he knows that,” Malcolm said softly.  “He’s more afraid _for_ me, afraid that helping him might require me to put myself in danger.  He isn’t wrong.  That’s always a risk to be wary of with magic, but we talked.  Instead of forcing him, I agreed not to endanger myself, and he agreed to let me heal him.  That’s all that matters now.”

Auriel became quiet, thoughtful as they continued their trek into the hills.  “What if he wasn’t your father?” she asked.  “What if he were just some elf, a stranger?  Would you still be working so hard to heal him?”

“If he were just another patient,” Malcolm explained, “it would have actually been much easier.  He wouldn’t be worried about me and there wouldn’t have been an argument in the first place.  He probably would have come to me sooner.”  Guilt settled in his chest, and Malcolm remembered how quick his father had been to ask Merrill to heal his wounds.  If Malcolm weren’t around, would Fenris have sought another healer for help before the possibility of permanent damage…

“Well,” she interrupted his thoughts, “you’re healing him now.  As you said, that’s all that matters.”  There was nothing but complete certainty in her voice, and Malcolm glanced at her, finding the elf resolutely focused on the path ahead.

They continued their trek, and as the slope grew steeper and the thick forest gave way to gnarled trees scattered among rocks and tufts of grass, their conversation eased into a comfortable exchange of stories.  Malcolm’s revolved around his family and their quiet little town, while hers centered on exploring ruins and daily life in the Dalish clan.  It was pleasant, and Malcolm enjoyed watching the way her expression shifted as she told her tales.  He also caught her studying him as he spoke, her gaze warm and curious, her feet seeming to find the path on their own.  Though he was also accustomed to traipsing the outdoors, his experience was clearly no match for hers.  He had to frequently return his attention to the terrain in front of him.  Once, he was slow to heed his surroundings and nearly tripped.  Though he found his balance at the last moment, he noticed the way she smirked to herself and felt his face flush.  He silently hoped it was a good thing, that she found him so amusing, and the thought only made him blush harder.

It was evening before they reached their destination, and while Malcolm inspected the delicate vines of arbor blessing, Auriel started gathering kindling.

“This is a good place to camp,” she explained, assembling a ring of stones around the growing pile of sticks.

Malcolm frowned.  “The path here was clear enough.  I thought we might start back right away.”

The _look_ she gave him…

“Perhaps the path was clear on the way up, in daylight,” she sighed, “but you’re asking to break your leg stumbling down these hills in the dark.”

Malcolm wanted to argue.  He could use veilflame to light his way.  He could heal himself if he fell.  He could… but he knew she was right.  Even if he put his safety aside, he couldn’t ask her to risk her own.  The idea of _her_ injured in a tumble down a hill worried him infinitely more than the thought of being hurt himself.

“You’re right,” he relented.  “I’ll wait to cut the vines until the morning then, so they’ll be fresher.”

She nodded, “I was going to suggest the same.  Come on then, and help me find some more wood.”

They poked around a stand of trees, and Auriel found a heavy branch that would suit their purposes.  She started to pick it up herself, but suddenly stopped and turned to Malcolm, looking him up and down.  “I trust you won’t have trouble carrying this?”

Malcolm almost laughed.  It looked to weigh more than his staff, but he was used to carrying whole stacks of firewood.  “No, it’s fine.”

“I could manage if it were necessary,” she muttered, heading back towards the beginnings of their camp.  “The Creators know I do it often enough.  Ithelan isn’t getting any younger and Sorenil is so clumsy sometimes it’s pitiful.”

“I appreciate that you’re letting me feel useful,” Malcolm concurred with a wry smile.  Once he had followed her back to the fire pit, he snapped the branch into manageable chunks and handed them to Auriel.  She arranged them neatly around the tinder and pulled a flint from her belt.  “I can actually be useful here too,” Malcolm offered, his fingertips glowing with fire magic.

Auriel leapt back from the fire so quickly that Malcolm extinguished the magic immediately.  “I don’t have to use magic,” Malcolm told her.  “I can light the fire just as well with a striker…”

“No, go ahead,” she insisted.  “The magic is no trouble for me… just… Well, you’ve seen Marigold fight…”

Malcolm recalled the image of a dragonling caught in the violent torrent of the elven mage’s spells.

“She has things well under control, make no mistake,” Auriel continued.  “I’m sure there’d be no trouble anymore, but between her forcefulness and the Keeper’s absentmindedness, I learned from a young age to keep back when mages light fires.”  She smiled weakly.  “I do like my eyebrows where they are…”

With a sympathetic nod, Malcolm lit the fire with a slow, steady pulse of magic.  “You should know my sister regularly pesters me to heat tea for her while she’s holding the cup.  I don’t think it ever crossed her mind to fear for her eyebrows.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Healer,” Auriel said with a smirk.

As the sky grew dark, they both settled in around the fire and looked through their packs for something to eat.  Malcolm had assembled a set of traveler’s rations, hard biscuits and jerky.  He hadn’t seen the need for anything better than that.

“Put that nonsense away,” Auriel scolded him.  “I brought enough real food for the both of us.”  As she spread the contents of her pack onto the rock beside her, Malcolm couldn’t help but agree.  She had brought plenty of fruit, cheese, and fresh bread.  “If we somehow get lost, suddenly forget how to hunt, _and_ get abandoned by both our families, _then_ we can eat yours.”

Malcolm smiled.  “A sound plan of action.”  He took a seat on a convenient rock beside the food Auriel had laid out and started eating.  For a time, both of them were absorbed in their meal, hungry from a day of hiking.  Eventually, Malcolm looked at her, watching the way the campfire lit her hair in copper and her face in gold.

“I noticed that Marigold has her vallaslin… will you get yours soon too?”  Malcolm asked, turning to idly prod the logs in the fire.  When his question was met with silence, he looked up to see Auriel bristling.

“That’s a private question, and hardly a matter _you_ should be asking about,” she muttered.

Malcolm remembered asking Merrill about her Dalish markings several times as a child, and that all his questions were met with long, rambling, but cheery replies.  It hardly made sense to him that a pattern borne on one’s face was anything private, but he remembered reading that some young elves could not endure the painful ritual in silence, as was required.  Perhaps the lack of vallaslin on one who was clearly of age was a topic best left unmentioned. 

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm replied, genuinely contrite.  “I should have given more thought before letting my curiosity get the better of me.  Please, pardon my lack of courtesy.”

Just like that, the little elf deflated.  “No… it’s…”  She sighed.  “You couldn’t have known.  The other elves in the clan will gladly answer any questions you have, I’m sure.”

Malcolm nodded, offering a weak smile.  “I should also admit… I’m merely looking for topics of conversation.”  _I wanted to keep talking with you… I enjoy talking with you…_

Auriel seemed to scrutinize him for a time, her blue eyes shining in the firelight.  “Perhaps I’ll ask you something, then.  Being a healer… What’s it like?”

“You seem plenty experienced with the majority of it.  I spend most of my time preparing and mixing herbs,” Malcolm explained.

She tilted her head to look at him.  “You don’t just use magic most of the time?”

“No,” Malcolm answered.  “Illness... fever, cough, pain… that’s best treated with herbs.  Magic is certainly useful for knitting injuries back together, though.  That is what it’s like… stitching with spells rather than thread.  If the patient has a cut, magic works marvelously.  The edges of the wound _want_ to be rejoined, and magic merely helps them do that.  For illness…  Some of it feels like an injury, like when a fever leaves your throat sore, but it’s the disease making it hurt, and the patient’s body wants to fight the diseased area, not reconnect with it.  Magic can often treat the damage from illness, the source of the pain, but it cannot remove the illness altogether.  It can give the patient the strength to keep fighting, but it is still their fight.”

“I always wondered,” Auriel muttered, “why that was.  The Keeper tried to answer me, but it never quite made sense.”

“Well it is complicated, and a bit hard to explain to someone who doesn’t have magic,” Malcolm offered.

Auriel shook her head and smiled faintly.  “You know how she is.  Trust me.  You’ve explained it far better.”

Malcolm smiled back, but as he looked into the fire, his thoughts wandered back to his father.  “I only hope my skills are enough to help the people that matter most to me.”

“Your father…” Auriel trailed off, as if she decided better than to say what was on her mind.

“It’s okay,” Malcolm sighed.  “I’m mostly just fretting.  Aside from this tonic, magic is actually the only thing that _can_ help him.”

Auriel nodded.  “He’s not ill, then?”

“He is and he isn’t,” Malcolm answered.  “As I assume you’ve either been told or gathered on your own, his markings are not vallaslin.”

“The Keeper says they’re _lyrium_ ,” Auriel confirmed.

“Yes, and a lot of magic went into putting them there.  Some of the spells holding the lyrium in place have degraded, allowing lyrium to leech into his blood, with predictably ill effects.  I know what I have to do, and I should be capable of doing it and doing it well, I’m just…  He’s my _father_.  I love him, and depend on him, and the other people I love do the same.  I know you’ve said you don’t have the understanding of quite what I mean by that, but if you care for anyone in your clan at all you must at least begin to know how I feel.  As much of a relief as it is to be moving forward, to be doing _something_ , I’m afraid,” Malcolm admitted.  “I’m afraid for him, afraid of what it means if I fail.”

“Everyone else seems to have nothing but confidence in you,” Auriel said softly.

Malcolm shook his head.  “That only makes it worse.”

Suddenly, Auriel stood and moved closer to Malcolm, sitting right beside him.  She placed a tentative hand over his own.  “You said you would heal him even if he wasn’t your father.  You sounded confident in that.  Even if it feels harder, because he’s someone close to you, it doesn’t make you any less skilled.  I don’t understand the magic, but there’s no doubt your father will be in better health after you administer this tonic than before.  That’s worth something.”

She removed her hand and stood again, going to her pack.  “I’ll make us some tea.”

“Tea?  At this hour?” Malcolm wondered.

“Dalish night tea,” she clarified.  “Relax, Healer, there’s nothing medicinal to it and it won’t keep you up.  It’s just something warm to settle one’s stomach, with a taste you’ll find pleasant, I hope.”  She portioned some herbs into two small wooden cups and then turned and held a larger, metal cup out to him with a wry smile.  “I heard a rumor that you can use magic to make hot water for tea…”

Malcolm smiled, summoning the familiar combination of frost and fire to yield a steaming cup.  Despite her previous hesitation with the campfire, Auriel didn’t even flinch as the spells swirled before her.

That night, Malcolm had no trouble falling asleep, and even though he was roused for his turn at watch after only a few hours, he felt more rested than he had in days.


	30. The Tonic and the Daughter

 

* * *

The Tonic and the Daughter

Age 18 (continued)

* * *

 

Hawke had watched Malcolm brew the chelation tonic.  She had watched Fenris drink down the thick, pungent liquid without complaint.  She had watched the apologetic concern in her son’s eyes as he explained that the side effects would not be pleasant.  She had watched her husband waive the boy off, refusing to let him play nursemaid as well as physician.  So she had watched as the tonic left Fenris a sweating, retching mess.

Fenris gripped the sides of the bucket and sighed.  “I think it has passed.”

Hawke took the bucket and offered him a wet cloth with a weak smile.  “I hate seeing you like this…”

Fenris smirked.  “Then perhaps it is good your visits to the mansion happened to miss the worst of my drunken indiscretions back in Kirkwall.  Anders wasn’t wrong, I invited a similar fate upon myself regularly.”

“You were hungover on half of our missions, weren’t you?”

“Perhaps closer to a third…”

“Maker, how did you pull that off?”

“Between the fighting and the running, I was used to performing even when not at my best,” Fenris reasoned.  “What else could I do?  My only alternatives were capture, punishment, death.”  He ran the cool cloth over his face and sighed wearily.

Hawke drew closer and ran a hand gently through his hair.  “Well at least this is for your own good.  Do you need anything?”

He turned his head to kiss her hand.  “Just this.  Just you.”

“Good,” Hawke whispered, “because I need you.  Not just today or tomorrow, but until long after we’re both too old to be wielding blades.  Let someone know sooner, next time you feel out of sorts.”

“I have already promised Malcolm that,” Fenris replied softly.

Hawke smiled and kissed his forehead.  “Good.  Now, drink some more water.”

His face soured.  “Why bother?  It will only come back up again.”

“Healer’s orders,” Hawke warned.

Fenris sighed and took the cup, sipping it slowly.

Hawke decided it might help to distract him.  “Is your niece doing well?”

“Varric claims she’s a fine seamstress, or did you miss all his preening over his new red doublet in his last letter?” Fenris replied between sips.

She rolled her eyes.  “Come now, I know you’ve been exchanging letters with her directly.”

“If you know of the letters, I’m surprised you haven’t read them yourself,” Fenris muttered.  “I leave them right out on the desk half the time.”

“You’re allowed some privacy…”

“Then how do you know I’ve been writing her at all?” Fenris asked, his voice tinged with mock accusation.

Hawke smirked.  “A wife has to investigate when her husband starts getting letters penned in such lovely handwriting.”

Fenris snorted.

“But once I realized the letters were from Larina, I left it be,” Hawke explained.  “I’m happy, Fenris, that you found some family, even after all this time.”

“I already had a family, you and the children.”

Hawke shook her head.  “I mean besides us.  It’s nice to have some connection to where you came from, too.”

“I didn’t need it, but it’s not unwelcome,” Fenris admitted.  He drained the cup and handed it back to Hawke.  “The girl is well, though it seems Varric has made it his job to… open her horizons, as it were.”

“Uh oh…”

Fenris smiled faintly.  “Her mother kept her under lock and key, so the fact that she even met Naven, let alone spent enough time with him to fall in love, was something of a miracle.   Varric treats her like anyone else, which means drinking, cards, and work.  She’s learned she doesn’t have to accept every glass slid her way, though she’s scandalized by how little she remembers of that first night.”

“I’d be surprised if Varric wasn’t looking out for her far more than she realizes,” Hawke chuckled.

“I’m sure,” Fenris agreed softly.  “He’s good at that… like you were, like you still are.”

Hawke kissed him on the cheek.  “In case you haven’t noticed, love, you have a protective streak yourself.”

Fenris hummed in reply, all the admission Hawke knew she would get.

“As someone looking out for you,” she began, “I suggest you rest for a while.”

He nodded and crawled under the blanket, but he also grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her in after him.  “You too,” he ordered.  “You were up all night fretting over me.”

Hawke signed and nestled close to him.  “Fine, but if you throw up on me…”

“I won’t,” he promised, resting his head against her and sighing softly.  “I’m feeling better already.”

 

* * *

 

Malcolm looked up from _The Restoration of Enchanted Artifacts_ and sighed.  He had read through the entire book again, with careful attention to the kinds of spells he had found in his father’s markings.  It was all he could do for the time being, really.  He’d given Fenris the tonic, but he had to wait for it to run its course.  He was tolerating the chelation well, it seemed, when Malcolm had last checked on him.  Yes, Fenris had been sick, but he was keeping hydrated and didn’t seem to be suffering any damaging side effects.  Though the lyrium wasn’t completely cleared from his blood yet, it was already reduced.  Malcolm found all of the preliminary signs encouraging. 

For the first time, Malcolm felt like healing his father was a reasonable possibility, not just a hope or a dream.  He sighed again and let his head fall back against the tree behind him, let his eyes drift shut.

When he opened them, someone was standing in front of him and he startled, his book sliding from his lap.

“Relax, Healer,” Auriel chided him.  “It’s only me.”

“Was I asleep?” Malcolm wondered.

She shrugged.  “You were off here by yourself all morning, and it’s afternoon now.  When you missed lunch, I thought I would bring you something.”  She handed him a plate of food and a cup of something warm.  “It’s an herbal tea that’s supposed to be fortifying,” she explained.  “I thought I might make some for your father, too.”

“I’d like to wait for the tonic to work its way through his system before giving him anything with herbs, maybe tomorrow…  It smells nice, what’s in it?” Malcolm asked.

“Dawn lotus root, just a touch of embrium, dried redling shoots, windthistle… and plenty of honey,” Auriel replied.

Malcolm took a sip.  “Hmm… Depending on the soil they came from, the redling shoots might interfere with the tonic, but tomorrow should be fine.  I do think he would like it.”

“I’ll make some more tomorrow then.  Ithelan likes it too.  It’s a Dalish recipe,” Auriel explained.

“Don’t tell my father that when you give it to him,” Malcolm laughed.  “The only Dalish things he likes are the sweetcakes.”

Auriel looked surprised, and Malcolm wondered if he shouldn’t have said that.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say anything bad about…”

She scowled and waved her hand through the air.  “It’s not that at all.”  Both her expression and her voice softened.  “No… it’s just… That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”

“Oh…”  Had he been that melancholic?  Malcolm offered her a faint smile.  “Sorry, I’ve just been worried.”

Auriel shook her head.  “Don’t apologize.  I’m glad, that’s all, and I… Well, it’s good to hear you laughing.”

Malcolm’s smile brightened.  “I promise I’m not always so gloomy.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said.  “Now, eat your belated lunch, and drink the tea.  You’ll feel better.”

 

* * *

 

El watched as Fenris’s sword sliced cleanly through the bundles of reeds he had tied to stakes around the forest clearing.  He whirled and struck another, then turned, and his eyes fell on her.  He lowered his sword immediately, and a stern frown settled on his face.

“When you get tired of hitting sticks, do remember you have a few sparring partners, ready and willing…” she hinted with a smirk.

Fenris shook his head.  “I’m only looking to loosen up after being stuck in bed with the effects of that tonic.  I’m in no mood to spar, El.”

El sighed.  He would make it difficult, after all.  “If that were true, you could just cycle through your forms.  You wouldn’t bother setting up targets.”  She bent down to retrieve the two practice swords she had set against the tree stump beside her.  She walked closer, holding the heavier one out to him, hilt-first.  “We both know what a poor substitute targets are for a partner.”

“Did your mother put you up to this?” Fenris grumbled, taking the blunted sword and setting his own against a tree.

“No…  Why do you ask?  Did you refuse her too?” El wondered with feigned innocence.

Fenris merely grunted in reply, testing the weight of the sword in his hands.  It was far lighter than he was used to, El knew, but surprisingly well-balanced.

“There are times you go quiet and thoughtful and _broody_ , like Malcolm, and I can’t quite understand,” El admitted.  “But blades are a language that I speak well.  After all, I had a fine teacher.”

Fenris took a ready stance, waiting… an invitation El accepted happily.  He charged and she dodged.  He swung and she parried.  He stepped back and she darted forward.  It was a dance, familiar and comfortable to them both.

“Where did you find these?” he asked after deflecting her blow.

El grinned.  “It turns out none of these elves are swordsmen, but that doesn’t mean Ithelan didn’t train them to fight _against_ swords.”   Fenris ducked aside of her next strike and she had to rush to block his reply.  “Don’t let the magical glow deceive you, Marigold’s staff is a weapon all on its own.  There’s a bruise on my thigh to prove it.”

He scowled.

“Relax, I’ll go see Malcolm after this.  I just didn’t want to bother him twice in one day.  There’s no telling if I’ll get knocked in the head by a flying sword, after all…”  Her words made Fenris stop cold, but El pressed forward and he was forced to raise his blade to block.  “You’ve always been happy to train with me, and it’s been years since you forbade me to train with live steel.  It’s because you were always sure I wouldn’t get hurt, isn’t it?  You’ve always had everything under control… except now you’re afraid you don’t.”

He turned her latest blow aside, and she stepped back, lowering her weapon.  “Malcolm said the lyrium was gone for now, and that he’s healed what would heal.  Was it not enough?”

Fenris stood for a moment, meeting her gaze, his face unreadable.  After a moment, he sighed softly and drew her into a tight hug.  “It was enough for all of you to stop worrying over me.  Forgive me for not risking you or your mother as test subjects.”

El chuckled and he kissed the side of her head before ruffling her hair.  He stepped back, holding his sword out in challenge.  “Now, your last three strikes were sloppy, Eleuthera.  I want to see you do better than that.”

They trained a bit more, before El stopped them for a water break.  “Better than cutting reeds?” she asked him between gulps from her canteen.

“Better than cutting reeds,” he confirmed.  He handed her the practice sword and shouldered his own.  “We should go back, before your mother comes looking for us.”

“Looking for _you_ , you mean,” El snickered.  “She knows what _I’m_ up to.”

He rolled his eyes and nudged her along anyway.

Back at camp, Hawke gave Fenris a _look_ and fussed over getting him something to eat.  El smiled to herself as she paused to watch them.  Eventually, she scurried off to return the practice swords and found Malcolm reading though his books, _again_.  El sat down beside him and resisted the urge to snatch the book away.  She knew better than that.  She’d have to let him finish the current passage if she wanted him to be even remotely receptive to conversation.

Her patience was rewarded as Malcolm took only a moment before he marked his page and turned to her.

“Yes?”

El grinned.  “Father is doing much better.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “Yes… I… I told you that this morning, after I checked with my magic.”

“I don’t mean that,” she sighed.  “I mean he seems more… himself.”

“That’s good,” he replied, smiling softly.

“Be sure to keep on him, though,” she told him.  “I know you still need to do some magic stuff when we get home.  If he gives you any trouble…”

Malcolm shook his head.  “I don’t think he will.  I am eager to begin, though, and therefore eager to get home.”

“Hmm…” El leaned back and crossed her arms.  “ _Eager_ is such a strong word.  I thought maybe you were enjoying your time here.”

“I am, but Father…”

El sighed.  “We’re only here one more day.  Maybe take that time to think of _yourself_.”  She leaned closer and smirked at him.  “You can’t tell me it isn’t perfect for you here.”

“Perfect?” he wondered.

“Yes, here with Merrill’s clan.  First,” she said, counting on her fingers, “you’d get to go traipsing through the forest all the time.  You _like_ traipsing.  Second, you could heal anyone you met along the way that needed it.  You might be helping people, elves and not elves, so remote they have no other hope.  Third, if Merrill continues this… research… you’d get to see tons more of these ruins and carvings and writings.  You might even learn to read those nonsense runes.  That certainly sounds like you.  Fourth, and perhaps most importantly, you’d be with Auriel.”

He looked away, but she could see him blushing.  “The rest is true, but it’s hardly right to presume my one-sided feelings should have any bearing…”

“Maybe it’s not right to presume your feelings are one-sided,” El interrupted.

“El…”

She rolled her eyes.  “I’ve seen the way she looks at you, when you’re not already looking at _her_.  She’s warmed up to you considerably, Brother.  It would be a shame if you didn’t make a move while you still can.  After all, where else are you going to find someone so damn interested in flowers?”


	31. The Goodbyes and the Promises

 

* * *

The Goodbyes and the Promises

Age 18 (continued)

* * *

 

Malcolm had no intention of making a _move_ , as El had put it, but he resolved to spend his last day amongst the Dalish with Auriel, if she would have him.  In the end, she seemed just as willing to spend her time in his company.  They had eaten their breakfast with everyone else, and when she had mentioned needing to make a few potions, he had hastily offered to assist her.  Before long, the potion-making had become sidetracked by Malcolm’s interest in her notebooks.

“You drew all of these?” he asked, astonished, as he flipped slowly through pages of beautifully sketched herbs and flowers.

She nodded, a hint of blush coloring her cheeks.  “Yes.  It… It really helps if we have to send clan members who are less familiar with the herbs out to gather something.”

“A guide is one thing, but these are _beautiful_ ,” Malcolm told her.  He admired page after page of plants that looked like one could pluck them right from the parchment before he finally reached the end and handed the book back to her.  “How did you learn to do that?”  As far as he could tell, neither Merrill nor Ithelan had any artistic hobbies.

Auriel took the book and smiled softly.  “How does one learn anything?  I had a lot of practice as a child, a lot of time to myself…” her voice took on a note of sadness at the end that had Malcolm wondering.

She had taken up drawing because she had time alone.  Had she been lonely?  Malcolm thought of his own childhood, badgered into games by El, even when he would have rather been alone reading.  “Didn’t you have Marigold to play with?”

“We didn’t always get along,” Auriel admitted, “and when she first found her magic, it was chaotic.  She needed a lot of extra time training with the Keeper.”

_You can't just fix everything with magic, you know._

El’s words had stung all those years ago because they had echoed his own feelings at the time.  Was magic just a burden, or an advantage?  Was it cheating?  Was it _fair_ that he was a mage and his sister was not?  That day, however, had been a turning point somehow, and El had never made him feel that way again.

“Do you resent that Marigold…” Malcolm began.

Auriel scowled and cut him off.  “Of course not.  I’m not a child.  The Keeper did what was best for us all, and Marigold and I have grown closer since then.  That I picked up the skill in the meantime is nothing to complain about.”  Her expression softened.  “Don’t worry, Healer.  I don’t have anything against magic.  It’s a glimmering thing that’s always near, but I never quite understand it.  Like… like stars.  I see them every night.  I can name them, draw constellations in them, but I can’t touch them, I can’t _know_ them.”

“I’m not sure even mages can know everything about magic,” Malcolm explained.  “There’s always a spell you’ve never tried before, and even if you claim to have tried them all, someone always comes up with something new.”  He smiled.  “One of my teachers is always sending me books and letters with new spells.”

She smirked.  “Perhaps it’s like potions, then.  There’s always a new recipe.”  She picked up an empty bottle.  “The recipe I was about to start, however, before you became so enthralled with the contents of my notebook, is quite old.”

“Ah,” Malcolm laughed.  “Best to get back to it before it gets even older.”

They passed the morning making potions, and most of the afternoon gathering vegetables for supper.  After they had eaten, Malcolm assumed they would settle in around the fire with everyone else, but Auriel looked at the sunlight fading from the sky and frowned. 

“Would you come with me… just for a moment?” she asked him.

He nodded and followed her, assuming she needed help with something.  They walked past the tent where they had been making potions that morning, past her own tent, and hundred or so yards into the forest, far from the campfire.

“Sorry to bring you out here, but I wanted to talk to you,” Auriel explained.

Hadn’t they spent the whole day talking?

She worried at her bottom lip and fidgeted with the hem of her tunic.  “It’s foolish, but I have to _know_ ,” she muttered.  “I realize our first meeting was…  Well, it was not ideal.  I want to apologize properly for my presumptuous behavior.”

Malcolm smiled softly.  “It was a simple misunderstanding long forgiven.”

Most of Auriel’s anxiousness seemed to melt away, and what remained seemed more hopeful than troubled.  “Thank you.  I hope I’m not assuming all over again, but I’ve noticed you looking at me…”

“Forgive me,” Malcolm interrupted her, embarrassment heating his cheeks.  “I didn’t mean to be rude... I…”  This was his chance, he knew, but his mouth suddenly felt like it was filled with sawdust.

Auriel seemed content to fill the silence.  “It can’t only be curiosity, given that you don’t look at any of the others that way,” she explained.  “It’s only me you’re watching.  I thought perhaps…”  She cut herself short.  “I don’t want to assume again.  Can you tell me why?”

There was a warmth in her eyes, a hint of a smile on her face, that gave Malcolm courage.  “I find you beautiful,” he confessed, his voice quieter than he intended, but steadier than he expected.  That she didn’t immediately object to his anxious admission gave him confidence, and the words came more easily.  “I felt that way even while you had an arrow pointed at me, even while you scolded me over picking those herbs.  Beyond finding you lovely, I also find you fascinating.  It’s hard for me to properly describe.  I admire your skills… and the kindness you’ve shown me…”

She held her hand up to quiet him, no longer fighting her smile.  “It seems my assumptions were correct, for once.  That leaves me with just one more question.”  Auriel let out a deep sigh and started lifting the hem of her tunic.

Malcolm turned red.  How had they jumped so quickly from his confession of his feelings to disrobing?  He hadn’t intended such a thing.  “You…  I didn’t mean…”  He put his hands out, as if to stop her progress.

“Hush,” she chided him, “I’m not undressing.  I just need to show you something along my side.  You’re a healer, aren’t you?  You’ve seen a woman’s bare _side_ before?”

He thought of the woman in the market burned by oil, the girl who’s ribs had been kicked by a ram, and how many others?  He remembered nothing about them but the injuries.  El was a woman too, he realized, even if it was so easy to forget she was anything but his sister.  She showed no hesitation in sauntering over to the clothesline in her smallclothes if that’s where the shirt she wanted happened to be.  Yes, he’d seen a woman’s bare side, but not a woman he _wanted_.  Still, Malcolm nodded.

Auriel had actually paused to wait for his answer, and shook her head in amusement after he gave it.  In the end, she did only lift her shirt to her ribs, revealing a nasty scar that ran down from her chest to her hip.

“The bandits that killed my parents did that,” she explained, pulling her shirt back down.  “I was told I almost died from my injuries, but I am left with only that scar.  After being _marked_ like that, I swore I’d never let anyone mark me again, not even Mythal herself.  _That_ is why I don’t wear vallaslin.”

Malcolm remembered her harsh reaction when he had asked about her lack of vallaslin that night in the hills.  “I can see, then, why such a thing might be difficult to discuss with someone you barely know.  Again, I’m sorry that I brought it up earlier.”

“I meant what I said before,” she insisted.  “It’s not your fault for asking.  You couldn’t have known.  Besides, it’s not some great and terrible secret, it’s merely a choice that I’ve made.”

“Do the Dalish approve of such a choice?” Malcolm asked.

Auriel rolled her eyes.  “The Dalish outside this clan are hardly my concern.  I am certainly not theirs.  My Keeper understands.  That is enough.”

Malcolm nodded.  He couldn’t see Merrill pushing anyone into such a personal decision.  Though some small part of Malcolm wondered what she would look like with the Dalish markings, it hardly mattered.  Auriel was beautiful the way she was…

“You’re _looking_ again,” she said suddenly, breaking Malcolm from his thoughts and making him blush just a bit.  Auriel tilted her head like some predatory bird, blue eyes boring into him.  “I suppose then, it’s a fitting time to ask you.  Do you still find me beautiful, even with the scar?”

How could she even question such a thing?  Wasn’t it obvious?  No, Malcolm realized, it wasn’t, or she wouldn’t have asked.  He remembered how kindly she had reassured him when it came to his own fears about being skilled enough to help his father.  He had been concerned even when the answer seemed obvious to everyone else.  She too, deserved someone to give her a proper answer, not just dismiss her.

“Yes,” Malcolm replied softly, “I do.  When I look at you, I am struck by how lovely you are, but I also find you wonderful down to your very self, in a way no wound could ever mar.  I hate knowing that you were put through such pain, but the scar is evidence of your strength, and that strength is part of what draws me to you.” 

She didn’t immediately reply, but drew closer, close enough that she had to lift her chin to keep looking him in the eye. 

“And you, Healer, _Malcolm_ , have drawn my attention as well.  You are a man that seems like one contradiction after another.  It surprises me that someone so tall can have such a reassuring, unassuming presence.  You’re handsome, yet without a trace of the arrogance that all too often follows.  I’ve seen your magic rain cold fury down on your helpless prey, but I’ve also seen your magic heal.  You can spend so long lost in silent contemplation, but when something sparks your interest, you speak with such brightness and curiosity.”  She smiled at him, her eyes shining in the golden evening light.  “It’s like the Creators, your Maker, _someone_ endeavored to make a conundrum of a man and set him before me.”

“That’s…” Malcolm stuttered.

“It’s okay,” she laughed.  “I like a conundrum.  I like _you_.  So, here we are.  You’re drawn to me, and I to you.  I can really only think of one course of action.” 

Malcolm swallowed hard.  He expected this was what El meant by _making a move_ , but it wasn’t as if he was well-versed in romance.  “I’m not… This isn’t a position I tend to find myself in.”

“Ah, well, that’s merely another mark in your favor.  Don’t worry.  I can be blunt.”  She stepped even closer to him.  “Malcolm,” she whispered, the tiniest hint of a smile on her lips, “don’t you want to kiss me?”

At her invitation, Malcolm’s limbs seemed to move on their own.  His legs shuffled those few inches forward to close what little distance had remained between them.  One hand settled on her waist, over the very scar that had been her source of trepidation.  The other reached for her face, tilting her chin up towards him as he bent closer.  He found her skin soft beneath his fingers, her lips warm against his own.  He was vaguely aware of her hand resting on his neck and… Maker, _she_ was pressing closer…

When he finally pulled away, breathless and dazed, she was smiling faintly.

Malcolm forced himself to take a deep breath.  “I… I’d like to do that again…”

She smirked and leaned up to kiss him again, quick, playful.  “You have my permission to do it as often as you like.”

“No… I mean… yes.   _Yes_ …” He kissed her lips briefly, then her forehead.  “I would like nothing better than to kiss you more, talk with you more, see you more… It’s just, I have to go home… for a time…”

“I know, Malcolm,” Auriel assured him, her hand still warm and soothing on his neck.  “I wouldn’t even think to keep you from helping your father.  I only know I want to see you again.”

Malcolm couldn’t help but smile at that.  _She_ wanted to see _him_ too.  “I will need to repair the spells over the course of a few weeks.  After that, I can visit you.  I can come back here, or meet you wherever your clan has traveled to.”

“No need,” Auriel chuckled.  “The Keeper has been talking about altering our route slightly, passing by your town in just two months.  She’s quite eager to check in on your father herself and has assured us all he shouldn’t mind.  He’s less grumpy than he used to be, after all.  Or so she says.”

“She’ll likely conspire with my mother, and however he feels about her visit won’t matter much,” Malcolm laughed.

Auriel reached up to kiss him softly.  “I worry I won’t be content with just a visit.  I would like if you could travel with us for a season.  If it doesn’t suit you, you can return home by first snow.  Though, I understand if you don’t…”

“Nothing would make me happier,” Malcolm answered quickly, surprised by how right it felt.

 

* * *

 

El swung her sword, slicing deep into the log in front of her.  She wrenched it out and swung again, and again, as if destroying the wood would somehow destroy the tightness in her chest or the tears stinging her eyes.

She heard the crunch of boots on the ground behind her, but didn’t turn around.  “El?” Malcolm asked.  “Are you alright?”

Pulling her sword free again, El spun to face her brother.  “What did you tell him?” she spat.

Malcolm’s eyes went wide.  “What are you…?”

“ _Rall!_   You told him _something_ ,” she hissed.

“I didn’t,” Malcolm replied, so gently that she almost believed him.  “What happened?”

El turned and buried her sword in the wood again, the force of the blow reverberating through her aching arms.  “He asked me to marry him.”  Her voice had been barely a whisper, and when Malcolm didn’t immediately respond, she wondered if he hadn’t heard her.  She freed her blade and turned to glare at him.

“What was your answer?” Malcolm asked carefully.

El scowled.  “Nothing.  I left.”

“ _El_.”

She turned away and hacked at the log again. 

“El, you have to answer him.”

"No I don't."

"But..."

"I'm _leaving_ , Malcolm, and he's asking me to stay."

"El..."

"I can't," she muttered, the tears threatening once more.  “What did you tell him, Malcolm?”

Malcolm sighed and put a hand on her shoulder.  “I didn’t say anything,” he replied.  “We have an agreement not to talk about you.  He’s my friend, but I never wanted to get in the middle of your relationship.  I’m being honest, El.  Our last conversation was about his mabari, and the one before that was about the new book Uncle Varric is writing.”

El lowered her sword at last.  She believed him.  “Well, however he got it in his head to propose, I’m still leaving.”

“I know,” Malcolm said, “but my advice still stands.  You need to tell him, so he can move on.”

 _So he can move on_.

Those words twisted painfully in her chest.  It was the truth, but she hated it.  The fact that such a truth was so hard for her to accept made her feel like a dirty hypocrite.  If it was so painful to tell him _no_ , why wasn’t she telling him _yes_?

_Because I’m still leaving…_

“You told me once that the painful truth is better than a hopeful lie,” Malcolm explained, “so the painful truth has to be better than no answer at all.”

El sheathed her sword.  “You’re right, as usual,” she muttered, and Malcolm offered her a weak smile as she started off for Rall’s farm.  It didn’t take long to find him.  He was busy repairing a fence at the edge of the pasture closest to the Hawke household.

_He was waiting for me._

“Had time to clear your head?” Rall asked as she drew near, not looking up from his work.

El took a deep breath.  “Yeah.”

He looked up then, smiling gently.  “Good.”  Rall took her hand to pull her closer, reaching into his pocket at the same time.  Wordlessly, he put something in her palm and closed her fingers around it.

El didn’t need to look at it to know what it was… Small, smooth, and round… A ring.  She didn’t dare open her hand to look at it.  That would have made it all too real, and made what she had to say next too difficult.

“Rall,” she said, “I’m leaving.  I _need_ to.”

“I know,” he answered, “and I’m staying.  My family needs me here right now.”

She clutched the ring tighter and gritted her teeth.  “I’m not going to have you waiting here for me like some mabari.”

Rall chuckled a bit, a warm, comfortable sound she had come to love.  “You can’t tell me what to do, especially not if you’re leaving.”

“Well I can’t take this,” El whispered, shoving her still-closed hand at his chest.  “I can’t accept…”

“Eleuthera, keep it,” Rall insisted.  “It’s true, if you had said yes, this would be an engagement ring, but if you can’t say yes, let it be a parting gift.”  He lowered her hand and reached up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear before kissing her on the forehead.

She wanted to cry.  She loved him.  She did.  She knew she would regret leaving him behind, but she knew she would regret staying more.  She couldn’t do that… couldn’t let staying with him become something she resented.  “Goodbye, Rall.”

“Goodbye, Eleuthera.”  He managed to smile for her, but she could hear the unsteady sorrow in his voice.

El walked home slowly, winding through the hills to the river.  She sat there for a while, throwing stones into the water and finally letting herself cry.  At the height of her pity, she almost threw the ring away too, but the mere thought only made her cry harder.  Instead she held it close for a moment before tucking it into her belt.  Making that decision was soothing, in a way, and she found her tears subsiding.  She sat a bit longer, listening to the buzz of insects and the rush of water, watching the current swirl past.  With one more deep breath, she stood and turned straight for home.

She found Malcolm in the pasture between the river and their house, practicing ice spells.

_Kaffas.  He was waiting for me, too._

“Waiting long?” she snorted.

Malcolm merely shrugged.  At least he had the sense not to try hiding the obvious.

“I told him the truth,” El said.

“Good.”  Malcolm summoned a gleaming sphere of ice, scrutinizing it for a moment before using his magic to crumble it to glittering dust.  “I suppose it’s worth mentioning that I’m leaving too.  Merrill’s clan will visit soon, and I’m going with them.  I don’t know for how long.”

El smirked.  “I figured.”

He sighed, turning to her.  “Do you think Mother and Father will be alright with both of us gone?”

She looked at him, eyebrow raised.  He shot her a wry smile.

“Yes,” they answered in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke Family Road Trip round two is over, but I do have a little chapter after this – a pair of tiny little plot bunnies, if you will.


	32. Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I purposely left it vague which of the Hawkelings was born first. I never really decided which twin was ‘older’ because that’s never been part of their relationship dynamic.

 

* * *

Beginnings

Brand New

* * *

 

For Fenris, the birth of his children was a blur.

_There's too much blood, why aren't you healing her?_

_Hush boy, your wife has more work to do._

_It's alright, Fenris.  She's my sister.  I want her well as much as anyone, but it has to wait for the second baby._

He had been numbed by the ordeal, shocked to see Hawke that way, to hear again and again that so much pain and blood was normal, expected.  Hawke's mind was elsewhere, focused on the birth and not on him.  He had been by her side for hours, but a sudden flurry of activity had made him step aside, at a loss for what to do.  Despite the blood, it wasn't a battlefield.  He was out of place.

He shuffled silently to the corner of the room.  There was no sense in getting in the way.  Bethany was there for Hawke, helping with more than just magic.  She seemed to know just what to say to her sister, just when to be quiet, just when to ask questions.  The Old Woman also seemed to know exactly what she was doing, as if she’d seen it all before a hundred times over.

Their skill, however, did not erase Fenris’s fear.  Women sometimes died birthing one child, and now there was another?  More blood, more pain, more effort, and Fenris powerless to help Hawke in any way.

“Fenris.” Bethany stood in front of him, snapping him out of his daze.  She held a squirming bundle and smiled at him with a sort of warm amusement.  “Do you know how to hold a newborn?”

After a very long pause, he shook his head.

"Sit down in that chair… and they say it helps if you take off your shirt."  He didn't protest, or even ask why.  He simply complied.  Gently, Bethany passed the tiny bundle to him.  "Hold the baby against your chest.  One hand on the head, yes.  There, just like that, nice and close.  Don’t fuss too much with the blanket, you’ll keep the baby plenty warm.  Good.  You hold the baby, just like that, and I'll take care of my sister."

Fenris didn't say anything.  He couldn't even be sure he nodded in reply, but he did as he was told and held the baby gently against him.  The aimless squirming had stopped, replaced by a contented nuzzle.  He focused on that tiny weight on his chest, not on the discussion between Bethany and the Old Woman, or the sound of Hawke's effort and pain.

After something between a moment and an eternity, it occurred to him that the tiny creature in his arms was _his child_.

He clutched the baby tighter, suddenly afraid he would drop it, and it let out a tiny squawk of protest.  Fenris pulled the baby away from him, terrified he had somehow injured...

The baby simply looked up at him calmly.  _His child_.

Fenris was suddenly no longer in his little house, but somewhere warm, with dirt beneath his feet instead of floorboards.  His legs ached and his breathing was labored, but he was happy, so happy. 

"Ah, Leto, that's the fastest I've seen you run," a man chuckled.  "I'm sure that was faster than any of the other boys your age."  The man drew close and ruffled Fenris’s hair.  He smelled of hay and horses and apples.  Fenris looked up at him... Elven, but tall, with dark hair and a wry smile.  "Well done, son."

The memory faded, and Fenris was back in Ferelden, looking down at the baby in his arms.  The baby squirmed a bit and Fenris pulled it close again.  Across the room, another baby cried, Hawke laughed, and the air hummed with healing magic.

 

* * *

Later

* * *

 

Fenris took in a sharp breath.

" _Venhedis_..." he muttered softly.

"Hmm?"  Hawke turned away from the mirror to look at him.

"Nothing... You just look..."

Hawke laughed.  "Your niece is a wonderful seamstress, isn't she?"

It was true, Larina had done masterful work with Hawke's dress, but it was Hawke herself who left Fenris breathless.  The dress was appropriately modest for the occasion and Hawke's role in it, but the graceful sweeps of fabric accentuated her figure rather than hiding it.  Her hair was pinned back in lovely waves and her face... Hawke smiled often, but rarely with such radiance.  He was torn between the desire to see her always this way and to take her to bed and make a mess of it all.

"You look beautiful," Fenris managed. 

"Thank you, love," she replied, handing him a necklace in silent request to fasten it around her neck for her.  He did so, but only after trailing kisses down her neck and across her shoulder.  "I need to keep my clothes on for a while yet," Hawke chuckled.  "And please do save some of your more chaste admiration for the bride."

"Of course."

She turned and cupped his cheek.  "Larina did no worse with your clothes, Fenris.  It is perhaps the most dashing thing I've seen you wear outside of armor.  I don't know how she managed it after living here only a year, but the style is almost Fereldan."

Fenris had given little thought to his clothing.  He only wanted to look how he should.  "Our son is Fereldan, and it is his wedding."

Hawke smirked.  "Indeed, but after the wedding, and after I get a chance to admire you some more, I'll have you out of those clothes, Fenris."

"You will not hear a complaint from me."

Taking his hand, Hawke pulled him towards the door.  "Come, I'm sure Merrill has turned our yard into a garden by now, and there are guests to greet."  She laughed.  "A viscount, a magister, a pirate queen, a Dalish keeper, and an assortment of farmers.  This will surely be the most unusual wedding this town will ever see."

"And when El gets married?"

"Perhaps she’d rather invite us all out to sea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has grown tremendously from the first few little ideas I had. I now have covered every year of Malcolm and El’s lives from ages 3 to 18, and beyond. They have grown to be their own people, as the characters in my head often do. When I started this, I never planned on the trip to Tevinter, or anything with elves at all. I certainly never planned to include an adaptation of a country western ballad. I was so used to having a whole story sketched out from start to finish, but I’m so glad I chose a format that allowed for so many plot bunnies to spring up as I went along. 
> 
> Going forward, I can’t rule out future plot bunnies, but I do feel ‘done’. I also know that, come October, I’m not going to have much time to write. See, the great news is I’m having a second child. The bad news is that having the first child took enough of my physical and mental energy that I couldn’t even think of writing for a year. So, while I won’t turn down a good plot bunny if one shows up, I don’t see any on the horizon for this fic. I will give it some thought, but I will probably mark this fic complete.
> 
> I do have an idea I eventually want to write. It would be a start to finish story, not a ficlet collection, set 5+ years later, and focusing on Malcolm. The rest of the Hawke family would appear, for sure, but the POV would likely stay with him. It is like a 4th level plot bunny I NEVER expected. It will necessarily be quite OC-heavy, but I can’t ignore it. If I do end up writing it, I will definitely post it here (as a new work in the series), but I am a bit curious if anyone would actually care to read that.
> 
> Thank you, all of you, for coming along on this Hawkeling adventure. I’ve always written for myself, but I can’t deny that knowing others are reading makes it even better.
> 
> I also do want to thank my children, because as hard as it is to find time to write with a toddler underfoot and another baby on the way, I don’t think I could have written this fic at all without being a mother. Other people might be able to do that, but I don’t think the premise would have ever come to me so strongly before having a child of my own. Hopefully I can be as good a parent as Hawke and Fenris are :D


End file.
